    Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, October 27, 1896, by Various

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    Title: Harper's Round Table, October 27, 1896

    Author: Various

    Release Date: May 13, 2019 [EBook #59491]

    Language: English

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    *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE ***

    Produced by Annie R. McGuire

TEXAS.
THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."
TILL THE GAME IS DONE.
A RACE WITH DACOITS ON MY BICYCLE.
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
THE SMALL BOY IN WAR.
INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.
STAMPS.
BICYCLING.
THE BABY SPEAKS.

[Pg 1253]

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1896. | five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 887. |  | two dollars a year.

## TEXAS.

### BY A. G. CANFIELD.

"One misty, moisty morning" of April, '36, there was quite a commotion in the office of the Weekly Telegraph, enterprising pioneer of Texas journalism, printed in English and Spanish, and published in the little town of Harrisburg, east of the Brazos River.

The Alamo,[1] citadel and tomb of heroes, had fallen, and all the western part of the young republic was held by the Mexicans. Houston's hundreds were falling back towards the east; Santa Anna's thousands were in close pursuit.

The Texans now occupied Harrisburg, and a good many of them occupied the Telegraph office. These were carrying on an animated and eager discussion, while the object of their eloquence, a slim youngster of an uncommonly dark and swarthy countenance, stood listening silently.

"I tell you," cried one, "you're risking your life by staying here. Santa Anna's just as likely as not to have you taken out and shot. Remember Goliad!"

"And if they don't shoot you," said another, "they'll clap you in irons and shut you up in a Mexican jail. For my part, I'd rather take the bullet; it's quickest over."

"And you must remember," remonstrated a third, "that your paper's always been down on the Mexicans. They're safe to remember it, and as the editor has got clear off, they'll make you pay for yourself and him too."

"All the same," said John Sibley, steadily, "I'll have to stay until Mr. Bolden sends for me. He left me in charge here, but promised to get me away before the Mexicans come."

"Huh! Think Editor Bolden's going to trouble himself to get you out of the hole? You needn't if you do. He's saved his own skin, and that's all he cares about. The Greasers might knock everything in the printing-office into pi before I'd stay here to please him."

"Come, John," said one, somewhat older than the rest, "let me persuade you out of this foolhardy project. Your young life ought not to be thrown away in mere bravado."

"It's not bravado, Captain Hays," protested the boy. "It's my plain duty. I promised my employer I would stay and look after his property. He trusted me, and I mustn't disappoint him. So please don't ask me to go with you, for I can't."

"What can a boy like you do to protect the property?"

[Pg 1254]

"I can do just what anybody else would do," said John, smiling; "I can do my best."

"Well," cried one gay young soldier but little older than John himself, "you may thank your lucky stars that you're 'most as black as a nigger, and can patter Spanish like a regular Don. The Mexicans will take you for one of themselves. If they do, and you get a chance at old Wooden-leg, make him believe we're ten thousand strong. It's all right to lie till you're black in the face to fool an enemy and serve your country."

John Sibley nodded and smiled, as the troop filed through the office door with many wishes for his ultimate safety. He stood looking after them with a queer twinkle in his black eyes, saying to himself:

"I'll do the best I can, as you do, brave boys, but I'll lie as little as I can help. Wonder if I couldn't make the truth do as well?"

One day passed, and then another. The Texans had left the town, and continued their retreat towards the east. Still, there was no word from the editor and proprietor of the Weekly Telegraph releasing his young assistant from his perilous position, and John staid steadily on, caring faithfully for the property intrusted to him. He was "on guard," and had no more thought of deserting his post than if he had been a soldier under orders.

He passed the anxious time watching and waiting for two events—wondering which of the two would come first—news that he was relieved from duty, and the approach of the Mexican army.

The latter came first. Early one morning the vanguard appeared, soon followed by the main body, led by President Santa Anna in person.

Before noon dark-skinned soldiers were swarming over the town on the lookout for plunder and mischief, and a crowd of them filled the office of the obnoxious Telegraph.

They were surprised to find there a lad as dark-skinned as themselves, who in a resistless flood of Spanish welcomed them like brothers, assuring them in the most high-flown terms of Spanish courtesy that the office and all it contained was theirs, and would be honored by suffering destruction at their hands. But in the midst of this rodomontade he continued by many adroit and well-turned phrases and an assumption of genial camaraderie to induce his troublesome visitors to postpone their destructive designs until he had laid the case before General Santa Anna, to whom he wished to be taken immediately.

This request was granted without any difficulty, for without a word of assertion on his part they had at once adopted him as one of their own race. Who else in that country but a Spanish-American could boast such smooth and courteous manners, such densely black eyes and hair, such a copper-colored skin, and such a flood of Spanish!

When John Sibley stood in the presence of the Dictator of Mexico he trembled from head to foot, but not with fear. He was an American boy, and he could not look on the ruthless destroyer of so many of his countrymen, the treacherous executioner of Goliad, the bloody victor of the Alamo, without a shudder. But Santa Anna was used to seeing grown men tremble before him, and took no notice of the effect he produced on a boy.

"How is this, muchacho?" he demanded, sternly. "They tell me you are a Mexican, yet you are employed on the Weekly Telegraph, a paper that never ceases to attack the land of God and liberty, her government and her people. Now tell me if this is what a true Mexican would do?"

By this time John had recovered his self-possession.

"Poverty, your Excellency," he replied, in as fluent Spanish as the Dictator's own, "will, as our proverb says, make a man put up at bad inns. A poor orphan Mexican boy might well be pardoned if he took the work and pay the stranger offered. But if your Excellency thinks it was wrong, let me atone by serving my native land in any way you can make use of me."

The General examined him critically.

"You seem an intelligent youth," he said at last, "and in spite of your boyish look, you have all your wits about you. If you are sincere in your offer, you can give me useful information."

Then followed the usual inquiries as to the number, equipment, and route of the retreating army, to all of which John, contrary to precedent and the advice of his soldier friend, returned truthful answers.

"For if I tell Santa Anna that Houston has more men than he has," reasoned John, "he'll be mighty clear of following him a foot further, and will never fight if he can help it. But if I make him believe he can eat the Texans up at a mouthful, he'll push straight on, and I know what will happen then. The Texas boys will whip him out of his boots, or off his wooden leg."

When these usual questions were disposed of, Santa Anna, looking keenly at the boy, asked him if he knew the country thereabouts.

"Yes, your Excellency, I know the ground well on both sides of the Brazos, and for some way east."

"Humph!" said the General, suspiciously; "how comes a boy of your age to be so competent a guide?"

"My father was a ranchero," was the ready reply. "From a little chap, I went with him everywhere, until he died, about a year ago. I know the country almost as well as he did. Try me, and see if I fail."

"Perhaps I shall. My scouts know nothing of this country hereabouts. I have a mind to send you with them on the enemy's track to bring me news of their movements. Knowing the country and the people, you may gain intelligence where they would fail. You can serve me well if you are faithful; and if you are not—well, you deal with Santa Anna!"

"I'll take the job, and the punishment too if I fail," cried John, eagerly. Then, curbing his impetuosity, lest it should excite suspicion, he added, quietly: "I suppose your Excellency will furnish me with a horse? I have none."

"We have a good many, captured from the rebels on the Colorado," said the General, with a smile of grim satisfaction. "You can take your choice. And, muchacho, if you serve me well, your property shall be returned to you uninjured, nor shall that be your only reward."

This was said with a gracious smile. John felt the tiger's claws under the velvet pat; but his terror was gone now, and he exulted in the hope of outwitting the cunning Mexican.

The General's orderly showed him the corral where the captured horses were confined. There was a number of them; but the practised eye of the ranchero soon picked out the horse he wanted—a beautiful black mustang, whose satinlike skin, small head, and large bright eyes showed breeding and intelligence, while his clean-built sinewy limbs gave satisfactory promise of speed and endurance.

"This is the horse for me," said John, going up to him.

The orderly demurred. "No, bueno!" he exclaimed, emphatically. "He has the temper of the Evil One himself. A muchacho like you will never master him."

"He'll not show temper with me. Look!"

He patted the mustang's glossy neck and stroked its nose, while the horse stood perfectly still and whinnied low. Then, with a bound, John was on its back.

For a moment the mustang justified the orderly's bad opinion. With a vigorous buck it tried its best to throw its rider. But John sat firm, and his soothing voice and hand soon pacified the wild creature, which stood quietly by his side when he dismounted, rubbing its head against his shoulder.

"That horse knows you," said the orderly. "None of us can manage him; but you are an old friend."

"Maybe so. We had a black colt on the ranch that had the making of as fine a horse as this, but he was sold, and I don't know what became of him. I'll try if this is he."

He went some distance from the corral, then called "Texas, Texas!" in the caressing tone he had always used to his favorite colt. The mustang trotted up to the fence, thrust its head over it, and looked eagerly towards the place the voice came from.

"Texas! Texas!" cried John, delightedly, throwing his arms round the horse's neck and kissing the "lone star" on its forehead, the sole white spot on its glossy black hide.

The pursuit was resumed next day, and John went out[Pg 1255] regularly with the Mexican scouts, and always brought back encouraging reports. Firm in his conviction that a battle must result in a victory for the Texans, notwithstanding the greatly superior force of the enemy, John felt certain that the best service he could render his country would be to bring about a collision between her invaders and defenders as speedily as possible.

Meanwhile he learned to know his horse thoroughly. Although Texas certainly deserved the orderly's assertion that he had the worst of tempers, he never showed it to John. There was perfect understanding between horse and rider, and John knew he could rely on Texas in any emergency.

At last, when the scouts brought news that Houston had reached the San Jacinto, and would cross the river and continue his retreat next day, Santa Anna, President of the Mexican Republic and Generalissimo of her armies, felt that his time for action had come, and John Sibley, printer-boy, felt the same.

He was in the saddle before daylight next morning, ready for a long day's scout. They were to scour the country between the two armies, and send back reports to General Santa Anna. Whether the unusual number of Mexicans sent out with him that morning was intended to supply messengers, or a precaution prompted by doubts of his fidelity, John neither knew nor cared. He patted his mustang's glossy neck, and whispered in its ear that they two would do great things that day. The scouts had their work cut out for them, and were off betimes.

They had traversed a good many miles of country, seeing no signs of the Texans nor hearing anything new of their movements, when at noon they stopped on the bank of a large wooded creek to rest and refresh themselves and their horses. John's mustang was not hobbled like the rest, as he had no fear of its straying, but, to allow it to graze, freely, the bridle had been removed and was looped over the pommel of the saddle.

"Unsaddle, Juan, and let your horse roll," said José Cardenas. "That rests them more than anything else."

"Suppose Houston's scouts come upon us while we're unsaddled and unbridled?" suggested John.

"That for Houston's scouts!" retorted the Mexican, with a contemptuous gesture. "He has all he can do to picket his camp. But, amigo, I would prefer to see your horse in the same condition as ours, so if we have to fight or fly, we may be all on equal terms."

"All right," said John, carelessly.

He removed saddle and bridle and placed them beneath a tree. José gave a satisfied grunt, and coiled himself on the ground for a siesta. His companions followed his example, and in a short while the camp sank into utter stillness, the horses' crisp cropping of the long grass being the only sound disturbing the deep silence.

John raised his head and looked around. No one was watching. The solitary guard had his back towards him; all the others seemed asleep. He rose noiselessly and moved towards his horse.

In a tone little above a whisper he called, "Texas!" Instantly the small head was lifted from the grass, the small ears pointed forward, and the large intelligent eyes asked plainly, "Do you want me?"

His master replied by a gesture, and the horse walked softly up to him. John mounted and headed him towards the creek. And then—

"Whither go you, amigo?" rang in his ears.

He looked round. José Cardenas had risen, and his hand was on the pistol in his belt.

"It's time we were all going," called out John, coolly. "Wake the others, camarada, and saddle up while I give Texas another drink."

Cardenas hesitated. He looked at the boy sitting carelessly sidewise on his horse, he looked at the fine silver-mounted saddle and bridle lying under the tree, and his suspicion seemed absurd. He removed his hand from the pistol and turned to rouse his comrades.

With one far-reaching bound, Texas and his rider were over the creek and dashing through the woods beyond, a jubilant shout ringing back:

"Adios, camaradas! Any message for General Houston?"

The boyish bravado had like to have cost him dear. Before the words were well out of his mouth a bullet from Cardenas's pistol showered the leaves from the bough just over his head.

On he dashed, a fusillade of pistol-shots ringing out behind him. But he did not mind them; he was fast leaving them behind. His horse was in perfect condition, and as John felt the springy stride beneath him, he felt sure he could trust Texas to carry him safe out of danger.

"José Cardenas little thought I could ride barebacked as well as on the finest Spanish saddle," he chuckled to himself, "or he wouldn't have been so particular about my unsaddling. Ha! ha! what was I born and raised on a ranch for?"

He pressed on as fast as due care for his horse allowed. He must not exhaust Texas, for he bore news of vast importance which General Houston must hear before the sun went down. And should his horse fail him, or any unforeseen obstacle interrupt his journey, a glorious chance for victory would be lost to his countrymen, and might never be regained.

He had lost all fear of being overtaken by his late comrades, when the sound of a horse's hoofs behind him caught his attention. He checked Texas and listened.

Whoever followed him was coming at furious speed. Should he wait and see who it was? No; it was too perilous a risk. He must on.

He pressed Texas into a swifter and ever swifter gallop, but the noise of pursuit grew louder, and was evidently gaining on him. He looked back. His pursuer was José Cardenas, mounted on a powerful bay, and coming up hand over hand. Where could he have got that horse? There was none in the band to match Texas. Ah! the ranch near the creek! Cardenas had helped himself to the ranchero's best steed to catch him.

What on earth should he do? He could not distance his pursuer, and there was no chance for concealment on the open prairie. He was armed, but so was Cardenas; and in a personal encounter he knew well his slight boyish frame would stand no chance with the stalwart Mexican. But he would not yield his life and fail in his mission if one lucky shot could save him. He would have time for but one.

He felt for his pistol. It was gone. How, or when, or where he could not guess, unless it had fallen from his belt when his horse jumped the creek. He was at the mercy of his foe, and well he knew that foe would have no mercy.

Now Texas had other peculiarities besides his fiendish temper. One was a great dislike to being followed too closely. The sound of hoofs clattering close behind him rasped his nerves, and he generally let it be known. John saw that his savage temper was rising now. It had never troubled him, but other individuals, equine and human, had had frequent occasion to regret it, and the man and horse now in their rear would probably have the same.

The mustang's ears were laid flat on his head, his lips curled back in a fiendish grin, and the whites of his eyes showed prominently. And, to John's horror, he began to slacken his pace. In vain he urged him on. Slower and slower went Texas, and faster and faster came José Cardenas and his bay.

Now they were alongside, and Cardenas's hand was extended to grasp John's collar and drag him from his horse. On the whole, he preferred not to shoot the muchacho, but to carry him back for Santa Anna's judgment.

Texas saw that his time for vengeance on his too persistent follower had come. Whirling around, he measured his distance accurately, and drove his iron-shod heels into the bay's flank. Again came the flying heels, this time on Cardenas's bridle arm, and broke it.

With a fierce curse the Mexican changed the bridle to his other hand, and tried vainly to control his plunging horse. Wherever he plunged Texas followed, and his swift heels rattled on the unhappy bay's ribs and his master's limbs indiscriminately. At last no bay was there to receive them. He had beaten an ignominious retreat, and was carrying his helpless rider across the prairie as fast as[Pg 1256] his demoralized condition would allow. As soon as the foe was fairly routed, Texas recovered his equanimity and became as gentle as a lamb.

John pursued his journey without further interruption, exulting in the victory and lavishing praises and caresses on the victor, assuring him over and over again that he was worthy of the "lone star" on his forehead and of the land whose name he bore.

They reached the Texan camp at sundown, and John disburdened himself of his great news. It was to the effect that Santa Anna had divided his army, part of them to cross the river at a ford several miles below and strike Houston in flank while Santa Anna attacked him in front.

"And they ain't more'n two to one now, General," concluded John, eagerly, "and I know you won't retreat for them."

"Not a step, my boy," replied Houston. "We'll not retreat—we'll fight."

So on April 21 the battle of San Jacinto was fought, and the independence of Texas achieved. John was triumphant at the result of his calculations, and when the army reoccupied Harrisburg he had the pleasure of restoring to his quondam chief the entire plant of the Weekly Telegraph intact.

For himself he asked no reward but the consciousness of having done his duty at considerable risk to himself, and the possession of his beloved Texas, who was formally presented to him by General Houston, at the head of the army, as a slight reward for his devoted patriotism.

The young republic afterward showed her gratitude in a more substantial manner by granting to John Sibley, his heirs and assigns forever, as many acres of her virgin soil as formed a magnificent ranch, where John and Texas lived to the extreme of the years allotted to man or horse, honored by all who knew them as potent factors in the cause of Texan independence.

## THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

### BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

### XII.

"Snoozer shall have a pancake medal."

This was the first thing Ollie and I heard in the morning, and it was Jack's voice addressing the hero of the night before. We speedily rolled out, and agreed with Jack that Snoozer must be suitably rewarded. He seemed fully to understand the importance of his action in barking at the right moment, and for the first morning on the whole trip he was up and about, waving his bushy tail with great industry, and occasionally uttering a detached bark, just to remind us of how he had done it. He walked around the pony several times, and looked at her with a haughty air, as much as to say, "Where would you be now if it hadn't been for me?"

"He shall have a pancake," continued Jack—"the biggest and best pancake which the skilful hand of this cook can concoct."

Jack proceeded to carry out his promise, and when breakfast was ready presented a pancake, all flowing with melted butter, to the dog, which was as big as could be made in the frying-pan.

"I always knew," said Jack, "that Snoozer would do something some day. He's lazy, but he's got brains. He would never bark at the moon, because he knows the moon isn't doing anything wrong, but when it comes to horse-thieves it's different."

Snoozer munched his pancake, occasionally stopping to give a grand swing to his tail and let off a little yelp of pure joy.

As we were getting ready for a start, and speculating on the prospect for water, a man came along, riding a mule, and we asked him about it.

"YAH, BLENTY VATERS. DOAN NEED TO DAKE NO VATERS ALONG."

"Yah, blenty vaters," said the man. "Doan need to dake no vaters along."

"Any houses on the road?" asked Jack.

"Blenty houses," answered the stranger—"houses, vaters, efferydings."

We thanked him and started. Notwithstanding this assurance, I had intended to fill a jug with water, but forgot it, and we went off without a drop. We were going down what was called the Ridge Road, along the divide between Elk and Elder creeks, and hoped to reach the crossing of the Cheyenne at Smithville Post-office that evening, and get on the Reservation the next morning. In half an hour we passed some trees which marked the site of the Washday Springs, but there was no house there, nor had we seen one at eleven o'clock. We met an Indian on foot, and Jack said to him,

"Where can we get some water?"

The Indian shook his head, "Cheyenne River," he replied.

"Isn't there any this side?"

"No," with another jerk of the head. Then he stalked on.

"Yes, and the Indian's right, I'll warrant," exclaimed Jack. "'Blenty vaters' indeed! Why, that Dutchman doesn't know enough to ache when he's hurt."

"Well, we're in for it," said I. "We can't go back. Maybe it'll rain," though there was not a cloud in sight, and there was more danger of an earthquake than of a shower.

So we went on, and a little after dark wound down among the black baked bluffs to the crossing, without any of us having had a drop to drink since before sunrise. After we had "lowered the river six inches," as Jack declared, we went into camp.

We were up early in the morning, and Jack went down the river with his gun, and got several grouse. There was one house near the crossing, which was the post-office. The man who lived there told us it was a hundred and[Pg 1257] twenty-five miles across the Reservation to Pierre, and twenty miles to Peno Hill, the first station at which we would find any one. The ford was deep, the water coming up to the wagon-box, and there was ice along the edges of the river. It was a fine clear day, however, and the cold did not trouble us much. We wound up among the bluffs on the other side of the river, and at the top had our last sight of the Black Hills. We went on across the rolling prairie, black as ink, as the grass had all been burned off, and reached Peno Hill at a little after noon. There was a rough board building, one end of it a house and the other a barn. All of the stage stations were built after this plan. We camped here for dinner, and pressed on to reach Grizzly Shaw's for the night. About the middle of the afternoon we passed Bad River Station, kept by one Mexican Ed.

"I'm going to watch and see if he runs when he sees Snoozer," said Ollie. Snoozer had insisted on walking most of the time since his adventure with the horse-thieves; but greatly to Ollie's disappointment Mexican Ed showed no signs of fear even when Snoozer went so far as to growl at him.

As it grew dark we passed among the Grindstone Buttes—several small hills. A prairie fire was burning among them, and lit up the road for us. We came to Shaw's at last, and went into camp. We visited the house before we went to bed, and found that Shaw was grizzly enough to justify his name, and that he had a family consisting of a wife and daughter and two grandchildren.

"Pierre is our post-office," said Shaw, "eighty-five miles away."

"The postman doesn't bring out your letters, then?" returned Jack.

"We ain't much troubled with postmen, nor policemen, nor hand-organ men, nor no such things," answered Shaw. "Still, once in a while a sheriff goes by looking for somebody."

We told him of our experience with thieves, and he said:

"It's a wonder they didn't get your pony. There's lots of 'em hanging about the edge of the Reserve, because it's a good place for 'em to hide."

"Must make a very pleasant little walk down to the post-office when you want to mail a letter," said Jack, after we got back to the wagon—"eighty-five miles. And think of getting there, and finding that you had left the letter on the hall table, and having to go back!"

We were off again the next morning, as usual. At noon we stopped at Mitchell Creek, where we found another family, including a little girl five or six years old, who carried her doll in a shawl on her back, as she had seen the Indian women carry their babies. We had intended to reach Plum Creek for the night, but got on slower than we expected, owing partly to a strong head-wind, so darkness overtook us at Frozen Man's Creek.

"Not a very promising name for a November camping-place," said Jack, "but I guess we'll have to stop. I don't believe it's cold enough to freeze anybody to-night."

There was no house here, but there was water, and plenty of tall dry grass, so it made a good place for us to stop. Frozen Man's Creek, as well as all the others, was a branch of the Bad River, which flowed parallel with the trail to the Missouri. We camped just east of the creek. The grass was so high that we feared to build a camp-fire, and cooked supper in the wagon.

"I'm glad we've got out of the burned region," said Jack. "It's dismal, and I like to hear the wind cutting through the dry grass with its sharp swish."

There was a heavy wind blowing from the southeast, but we turned the rear of the wagon in that direction, saw that the brake was firmly on, and went to bed feeling that we should not blow away.

"I wonder who the poor man was that was frozen here?" was the last thing Jack said before he went to sleep. "Book agent going out to Shaw's, perhaps, to sell him a copy of Every Man his own Barber; or, How to cut your own Hair with a Lawn-Mower."

THE CLOSEST CALL THE "RATTLETRAP" HAD.

We were doomed to one more violent awakening in the old Rattletrap. At two o'clock in the morning I was roused up by the loud neighing of the horses. Old Blacky's hoarse voice was especially strong. As I opened my eyes there was a reddish glare coming through the white cover. "Prairie fire!" flashed into my mind instantly, and I gave Jack a shake and got out of the front of the wagon as quickly as I could. I had guessed aright; the flames were sweeping up the shallow valley of the creek before the wind as fast as a horse could travel. Jack came tumbling out, and we knew instantly what to do. We both ran a few yards ahead of the wagon and knelt in the grass, and struck matches almost at the same moment. Jack's went out, but mine caught, and a little flame leaped up, reached over and to both sides, and then rolled away before the wind, spreading wider and wider. I beat out the feeble blaze which tried to work to windward, and ran back to the wagon, while Jack went after the horses. The coming flames were almost upon us by this time; but Ollie was out, and together, aided by the wind, we rolled the wagon ahead on our little new-made oasis of safety. Jack pulled up the pony's picket-pin, and brought her on also, while the other horses, being loose, sought the place themselves. The flames came up to the edge of the burned place, reached over for more grass, did not find it, and died out. But on both sides of us they rushed on, and soon overtook our little fire, and went on to the northwest. The wind, first hot[Pg 1258] from the fire, now came cool and fresh, though full of the odor of the burned grass.

"Closest call we've had," said Jack.

"Yes," I replied; "been pretty warm for us if we hadn't waked up. Our animals are doing better; first Snoozer distinguished himself, and now I think we've to thank Old Blacky mainly for this alarm."

We were pretty well frightened, and though we went back to bed, I do not believe that any of us slept again that night. At the first touch of dawn we were up. As it grew lighter, the great change in the landscape became apparent. The gray of the prairie was turned to the blackest of black. Only an occasional big staring buffalo skull relieved the inkiness. Far away to the northwest we could see a low hanging cloud of smoke where the fire was still burning.

"Blacky ought to have a hay medal," said Jack at breakfast. "If I had any hay I'd twist him up one as big as a door-mat."

But Blacky, unlike Snoozer, seemed to have no pride in his achievement, and he wandered all around the neighborhood trying to find a mouthful of grass which had been missed by the fire; but he was not successful.

"If the frozen man had been here last night he'd have been thawed out," I said.

"Yes; and if Shaw had been here, what a good time it would have been for him to let the fire run over his hair and clear off the thickest of it!" returned Jack.

We started on, but the long wind had brought bad weather, and before noon it began to snow. It kept up the rest of the day, and by night it was three or four inches deep. We stopped at noon at Lance Creek, and made our night camp at Willow Creek; at each place there was a stage station in charge of one man. It cleared off as night came on, but the wind changed to the north, and it grew rapidly colder. Shortly after midnight we all woke up with the cold. We already had everything we had piled on the beds, but as we were too cold to sleep, there was nothing to do but to get up and start the camp-fire again. This we did, and staid near it the rest of the night, and in this way kept warm at the expense of our sleep.

The morning was clear, but it was by far the coldest we had experienced. The thermometer at the station marked below zero at sunrise. We almost longed for another prairie fire. It grew a little warmer after we started, and at about eleven o'clock we reached Fort Pierre, on the Missouri, opposite the town of Pierre. The ferry-boat had not yet been over for the day, but was expected in the afternoon.

"You're lucky to get it at all," said a man to us. "It is liable to stop any day now, and then, till the ice is thick enough for crossing, there will be no way of getting over."

"WELL! WELL! WELL!" SAID GRANDPA OLDBERRY.

The boat came puffing across toward night, and we were safely landed east of the Missouri once more. But we were still two hundred miles from home; the country was well settled most of the way, however, and we felt that our voyage was almost ended. Little happened worthy of mention in the week which it took us to traverse this distance. The weather became warmer and was pleasant most of the way. On the last night out it snowed again a little and grew colder. We were still a long day's drive from Prairie Flower, but we determined to make that port even if it took half the night.

It was ten o'clock when we saw the lights of the town.

"Here we are," said Jack, "and I vote we've had a good time, and that we forgive Old Blacky his temper, and Old Browny and Snoozer their sleepiness, and Ollie his questions, and the rancher his general incompetence."

"And the cook his pancakes," cried Ollie.

We stopped a little while in front of Squire Poinsett's grocery, and Jack picked up the big revolver and fired the six shots into the air. The pony had come alongside the wagon, and Snoozer had his head over the dash-board. Half a dozen people came running out, including Grandpa Oldberry, wearing red yarn mittens and carrying a lantern. He held up the light and looked at us.

"Well, I vum," he exclaimed, "if it ain't them three pesky scallawags back safe and sound! I've said all along that varmints would get ye sure, and we'd never see hide nor hair of ye again! Well, well, well!"

It was clear that Grandpa was just a little disappointed to see that his predictions hadn't been fulfilled.

So the voyage of the good schooner Rattletrap was ended. It had been over a thousand miles long, and had lasted more than two months.

#### THE END.

## TILL THE GAME IS DONE.

### BY SEELYE BRYANT.

Captain "Reddy" Alden, of the Blackwood Academy football team, was not handsome. He was not even graceful. But his chin "meant business," and there was a serene look in his eyes which was likely to make a bully think twice before taking hold of him. His nickname sufficiently indicated the color of his hair, which grew back from his forehead in a "cowlick," and showed a tendency, when of approved football length, to drop in straggling masses down either side of his freckled face.

Reddy—or more properly Mark—was nineteen years old, tall, and long-armed, with a very slight outward bend of the legs, and a chest not broad but deep. He looked wiry rather than muscular.

As he started toward the village, one Thursday afternoon, his hands were in his pockets, his leather cap was on the back of his head, and the collar of his heavy sweater fell over his shoulders above his double-breasted coat.

He walked slowly down the hill, as if waiting for some one, and occasionally turned to look back toward the academy. Soon a clear quick call stopped him entirely. "Hold on there, Reddy!" it came, and the next moment "Buck" Harris darted down the hill and caught him by the arm.

The two settled into a brisk walk, and Buck remarked, "I saw Billy Hurd just now. His knee'll keep him off the field for a month."

"Too bad!"

"Well, what are you going to do?"

"Going to do?"

"Yes. Saturday comes in two days, and with Hurd gone there's no one on the team safe enough to kick twenty yards."

The Captain smiled grimly, "We'll run, then!"

"Why not give up playing Winston this year? It's an extra game, and they're too heavy for us, anyway. Think what a strain it's going to be to face that rush-line for the two halves. And if they know enough to keep Mellen kicking, he'll about kill us before the end of the first half, making us chase the ball. Besides, he's dead sure to drop a goal from the field, if he gets any sort of an angle within decent distance of the posts."

Reddy straightened up, and his blue eyes gleamed.

"That game's no picnic for either side!" he jerked out. "The Blackwood boys'll play it for all that's in it! Our tricks are good, and I shall save you for the second half. As for me—well, I was never killed yet, and I never saw a Blackwood eleven go back on its Captain!"

This was a long speech for Mark Alden, and it had its effect upon his chum.

Seton Harris was short, thick-set, and very muscular, although his fashionable clothes and perfect grace of movement might at first deceive you in regard to his "solid contents."

He had regular features, and clear, glowing cheeks, with handsome eyes, and dark hair, whose clustering waves even the exigencies of football could not persuade him to wear at more than conventional length. He was two years younger than Alden, and a class below him in school.

Their intimacy had been the surprise of the year. When[Pg 1259] the principal heard of it he said, "Well, if anything can make a man out of Seton Harris, it is to room with Mark Alden. I am delighted with the arrangement, though I confess I do not understand it."

Others felt in the same way, and perhaps the most thoroughly astonished person in the whole academy was Seton Harris himself!

He had come to Blackwood the year before with an obliging disposition, no strongly settled principles, and more spending-money than was good for him. As a natural result, the sort of boys who voted him "a jolly good fellow," and with whose doings he soon became identified, was not the sort most likely to make his academy career a success in the eyes of his teachers.

His great lack was persistence. He hated to face opposition or to keep steadily at work on anything that was disagreeable.

Still he had plenty of energy when he chose to exert it, and everybody liked him, even the principal.

He was the fastest short-distance runner in school, and when they made him "half-back" on the football team he became the "star" of the eleven.

His occasional fits of application had results sufficiently brilliant to save him from hopeless disgrace in his studies.

But he lived under a chronic state of reprimand for general conduct, his miscellaneous offences ranging from noisiness in his room during study hours to absence from the building after proper time at night.

In fact, he had so many executive sessions with the principal that new-comers were usually informed he was "Doctor Walker's private secretary." Rumor stated that a member of the entering class was accustomed to lift his hat when Seton spoke to him!

Even at football the boy could not be depended upon.

In practice and in minor games his play was wonderful. But he was likely to lose his nerve in a close struggle. It was not that he was actually afraid. He had physical courage, only his confidence did not meet the requirements of a "forlorn hope." Once start him with the ball, and he was all right, seemed perfectly reckless of himself, made those "phenomenal rushes" that capture a grand stand by storm.

But he seemed unwilling to run after he had failed once or twice to gain ground. When sharp work was needed, he was not sure of catching the ball, and might even trip himself up in getting under way.

Besides, the managers continually complained that he was irregular about training.

This was Buck Harris at the time when steady-going, self-contained Mark Alden first showed an interest in him. Buck never told exactly how it happened, and no one ventured to ask Reddy.

But it came to pass, after one of Buck's numberless escapades, near the beginning of the fall term, that he moved his personal effects into the large corner room on the second floor where Alden had planned to reign alone during Senior year.

The escapade in question was unusually serious. The "wild set" had destroyed some abandoned buildings belonging to a farmer in the lower village. The owner did not love the Blackwood boys, and vowed to push the case to the extreme of the law.

"Jest let me git one o' them pesky young villyuns behind the bars 'nd I'll be satisfied!" he told the postmaster.

Now it chanced that Seton Harris was identified as the particular "villyun" whom he was most anxious to prosecute. Money would not satisfy the man, and matters looked black for the culprit.

But, to the surprise of the town, the case did not come to trial.

All that the public knows about it is that Mark Alden walked down to the lower village with Seton one afternoon, and that when they came out of the farmer's house, an hour after, the owner was seen to shake hands with both the boys.

The public does not know what took place as Seton and Mark sat under the academy maples waiting for supper.

"Reddy, not one of my set would do as you've done for me to-day. I believe I'd like to cut the whole tough outfit!"

"Why don't you?"

"Too hard work; besides, there's nobody else much that I know very well."

"Room with me."

Seton gasped, and turned around to look his companion squarely in the face. "Do you mean it? Wy, I'd drive you crazy!"

"I mean it."

And so it was brought about.

Saturday afternoon, and one o'clock. The old "Elm House" barge drew up promptly at the academy door. "Pete" Marston had driven that barge for the boys on every athletic occasion in the last fifteen years. No one enjoyed the successes or mourned the defeats of Blackwood Academy more sincerely than Pete.

"I vum, boys, ye look 's if ye cal'lated to start for the north pole this trip, with all them duds wound round ye!" he called back as the players tumbled in.

Sweaters, ulsters, toboggan caps, and padded suits made it difficult to tell where woollen goods left off and the boys began. Buck Harris had wrapped a huge Turkish towel around himself on top of everything else, "by way of ornament," he remarked. Buck's dark eyes were the only visible portion of him, but from the continual "chaff" he kept flying, the rest knew that somewhere was an open passage to his mouth. Everybody was talking except Mark Alden. Some were excited, and a few were gayly indifferent. Mark did not look at all worried; he simply kept quiet.

Half past three o'clock on the grounds of the Winston Normal Institute. The game with Blackwood was in progress. Mark Alden had just "tackled" a Winston player in his decided way, which left no doubt as to where the ball was "down."

"That Captain of yours is an ugly customer, I judge," said the Winston storekeeper to Pete Marston, who had put up his horses and was leaning against the fence.

"Waal no, Reddy ain't ugly 'xac'ly. He's square 's a meetin'-house—ain't afraid 'f th' inside o' one neither; only when football's on he plays the game, that's all. Don't believe he sees anythin' but the ball, or knows there's anybody here but them players. He's jes so in ev'rythin' else. 'Twouldn't be no diff'rent if 'twas drawin' trygomertry figgers on that there blackboard up 't Blackwood school. He wouldn't hev nothin' in his red head then but rules 'nd chalk-marks. He ain't jest what I call a chromo fer looks, but he's all pluck, 'nd I hain't seen no cleaner-talkin', perliter boy in the last ten years."

It was a disheartened group that gathered in the Blackwood dressing-room for the intermission when the game was half over. Winston had five points, Blackwood none. Buck Harris had fumbled the ball almost in front of his own goal. A Winston man immediately dropped on it, and in the play that followed Mellen had kicked a clean goal from the field at twenty-eight yards.

As the last man came in and shut the dressing-room door Harris dropped on the bench and groaned out:

"It's all my fault, boys, but we're beaten now. We're all worn out. The next half'll be a regular procession."

"Buck, that's enough."

The boys stared. Mark Alden seldom spoke like that, but he was stern enough now.

"Set won't fumble again, I'll answer for that. Get rubbed down, all of you, and then rest till time is called. This game is young yet."

And loosening his jacket Mark pulled a towel from the rack.

It was evident in the last "half" that Winston was on the defensive. Its players merely tried to keep Blackwood from scoring. They made some pretense of running with the ball for the sake of using up time; but their real work was done by their brilliant full-back, Mellen, whose[Pg 1260] sure kicks carried the ball far down the field whenever their goal-line was in danger.

These tactics succeeded until a few minutes of time remained. Buck Harris was doing nobly, and had nearly succeeded in getting a touch-down, but the next play gave Winston the ball. The two elevens were lining up for Mellen's inevitable kick, when Barstow, of the Winstons, passed near the Blackwood Captain.

Alden's hair was flying wildly about his face. His cheeks were flushed. He was dark under the eyes and pale about the mouth and forehead. His lips were tightly closed, and his nostrils wide apart. One stocking was half-way down his leg, his canvas jacket was torn in several places, and, in spite of the chill air, perspiration soaked him through and through.

Ned Barstow knew him well, and could not resist a bantering word.

"How d'you like it, Reddy?"

"Blackwood's never beaten till the game is done!" came through Mark's set teeth.

The ball was kicked on along slant, more across than down the field, and as the players scattered to follow it, Mark and Seton found themselves running together off at one side away from the rest. The ball, which had gone over their heads, was still in the air, but very near. Directly behind them there was almost a clear field to the Winston goal-line.

"I'll catch it, Buck," Mark whispered. "You be all right to start when I give it to you. Keep behind me when I turn around; we can't afford a foul pass!"

It was on the ground before they reached it, but Mark snapped it up and shot it under his arm to his chum, who darted up the field behind him. The two were fairly started before the others saw what had happened.

Fleet-footed Buck Harris, plus a clear field and Reddy Alden for interference!

BUCK'S BLOOD WAS UP, AND HE TURNED THE FULL-BACK COMPLETELY OVER."

No wonder the Blackwood crowd yelled with delight. Winston men started across the field to head off the runners, but only two reached Harris. Barstow dodged Alden, and threw himself straight for Buck's knees. With a surprising wriggle the boy jumped clear over him, and left him sprawling. He was fairly caught, though, by Mellen, about a yard from the line. But his blood was up now, and by a supreme muscular effort he turned the full-back over, and together they rolled across. A touch-down!

Score: Winston, 5 points; Blackwood, 4.

Of course pandemonium reigned for a few minutes! Then the spectators calmed down, and the ball was brought out for the kick. Time was up, but the rules allowed the try for goal.

Captain Alden walked steadily toward the ball, which was held by the quarter-back, and just as it touched the ground his foot struck it fairly and drove it over the bar between the posts. A goal! Two points more.

Score: Blackwood, 6; Winston, 5.

It was Seton Harris who got the credit of saving the game, but Mark Alden did not care.

"Buck was really the only man who could make that run," he said to himself, "and it'll do him lots of good to have kept his nerve in one tight place."

Besides, Blackwood was not beaten, and the game was done!

[Pg 1261]

## A RACE WITH DACOITS ON MY BICYCLE.

### BY DAVID GILMORE.

I believe I was the first man to ride a bicycle in Rangoon. I know I was the cause of much wonder to the natives, who would stare in open-eyed astonishment to see a white man scorching by on a little iron carriage with two wheels. When I chanced to dismount, they would gather around and take a look at the machine, finger the tires, ask how much it cost, and finally grunt out some such remark as "Teh goundy, naw?"—Pretty good, isn't it? It was pleasant to be the centre of all this admiration, but not so pleasant when I turned the admiration into amusement by coasting boldly down a steep hill, making a sharp turn just in time to avoid a deep ditch, and driving full speed into a most unyielding fence. It is peculiarly mortifying to be laughed at by those whom you regard as your social inferiors.

When I arrived in Rangoon, it was just after the "dacoit times." Dacoits are the highway-robbers of India. They work in gangs, and travel over the country plundering, murdering, and sacking and burning the villages in the jungle. They carry guns when they can get them; but as the English are very careful to confiscate guns found in the possession of natives, the dacoits are generally armed with dahs, as the Burmese swords are called.

Shortly before I arrived in Burmah, the country had been infested with dacoits, so that even in the outskirts of Rangoon houses were barricaded at night, and the employment of private watchmen, always common in Burmah, became almost universal. By the time I arrived there, however, the gentle custom of dacoity had been pretty thoroughly broken up. Now and then a lonely village in the jungle might be looted and burned, or an English official living in some remote town might be murdered, but we who lived in Rangoon were safe. No dacoit dared to show himself there. At least, so I was assured.

Now I had a sweetheart in those days; and have her still—no less sweet now that she shares my home. But then she lived in Kemendine, a considerable village about two miles from my own home in Rangoon. I believe that technically Kemendine lies within the municipal limits of Rangoon, but practically it is a separate community, being cut off from Rangoon proper by a considerable stretch of unimproved land. Kemendine is distinctively a native community, having a large population of Burmans, but not half a dozen white inhabitants.

I was in the habit of using my bicycle when I went out to spend an evening with my fiancée. The road was lonely, but I considered it perfectly safe.

One night, after the good-byes had been said, I started for home a little after nine o'clock. A minute or so of easy pedalling brought me to the railway track which bounded Kemendine village. The gates at the crossing were closed, in anticipation of the Prome mail-train, which was due there in a quarter of an hour. I dismounted while the Hindoo gateman opened the gates just enough to let me through. Then I walked my wheel across the track and remounted, receiving, as I rolled away, the beautiful Oriental salutation, "Salaam, sahib"—Peace be with you, sir—a pious wish strangely in contrast with the scene which was almost immediately to follow.

On crossing the railway tracks I had left behind me the lights in the village street, and the road before me was illuminated only by the waning moon, which had just risen, affording me light enough to pick my way, though not as much as I wanted before I got safely home. On my left was the Burmese cemetery, on my right the ample grounds of a kyaung—a Buddhist monastery. Of these two, the proximity of the latter was much the more legitimate cause of anxiety, as the indiscriminate hospitality of the kyaungs makes them favorite lurking-places for bad characters. But all I thought about the kyaung just then was that the bells of its pagodas jingled sweetly in the night wind. About half-way down the hill the road turned at right angles from the cemetery, and skirted along the other side of the kyaung. On the left was a little village called Shan-zu. It was as still as the grave; the villagers were evidently all asleep. Here the road began to be bordered with bushes and bamboos, which grew denser as the road left the kyaung and the village behind and began to cross the waste-land between Kemendine and Rangoon. At the foot of the hill the road passed over a little bridge.

Of course I didn't coast down the hill, lest I should come to grief at the corner. But after turning the corner the road lay straight before me clear into the town, and I let my machine go, keeping my feet on the pedals, however, that I might have control of the wheel in case anything should happen.

AS I SHOT AHEAD AN AWFUL YELL AROSE BEHIND ME.

As I left the kyaung behind and was making for the bridge, I heard a few notes whistled softly just behind me.[Pg 1262] The sound seemed to come from the bushes skirting the kyaung. I should not have thought anything of this, however, if the same notes had not been whistled again, this time apparently from the fields just ahead. This was evidently a call and an answer; and it made me a little nervous, especially if the danger (if danger there were) menaced me both in front and in the rear. I looked around, but saw nothing more than I had seen many a night on that same road. Not knowing anything else to do, I went steadily ahead, keeping myself and my wheel well in hand, so as to be ready for any emergency which might arise. Passing by some gaps in the shrubbery, I saw some figures in the fields near the road making stealthily for the narrow bridge which I should have to cross before I could get into the town. I thought I could see some dahs under their arms. Then I saw the danger which threatened me. The dacoits evidently planned to intercept me at the bridge, and cut me to pieces when I should be at a disadvantage. I couldn't go back; for even if I had not had reason to think that some of the gang were lurking behind me, the time I should have lost in turning around would have put me at the mercy of my pursuers. There was only one thing to do, and it didn't take me long to decide upon it. My wheel was under pretty good headway, and I crowded on all the power I could to try and reach that bridge before the dacoits got there. As I shot ahead an awful yell arose behind me. I had been sharply watched. Immediately my ears were greeted by a chorus of shouts from the fields on both sides of the road.

My recollections of the next few minutes are not very clear. All I remember is, pedalling with all my might, with those bloodthirsty cries ringing in my ears, and my mind making incessant calculations as to the chance of getting a bullet through my body next moment. But I heard no shots, and probably the dacoits had no guns. I rolled on the bridge just as they swarmed up from the fields into the road behind me.

But I was not out of the woods yet. Before I got into town I had a long hill to climb. Now the Burman is a lightning sprinter when he chooses to sprint, and that's just what those fellows did. Racing them down hill I had the advantage, especially as they were running over the rough ground in the fields. But when it came to racing up hill they rather had the best of it, especially as they were now on the road. On a steep hill I would have had no chance at all; but the slope was gentle, and I had a start. I had a chance, therefore, for my life, and I made the best of it. The thought of those dahs put strength into every stroke I made. The worst of it was, I could not tell whether I was holding my own or not. My pursuers had stopped shouting, needing all their wind for running; and their bare feet didn't make much noise on the ground. I was bending low over my handle-bar, and didn't dare to risk diminishing my speed by straightening up to look behind me even for an instant.

But when I got to the head of the hill, and was passing the grounds of the Chief Commissioner, where there are always soldiers on guard, I felt that I could venture to take a backward glance. Then I saw that my pursuers had all disappeared.

Next day I wrote a letter to the Chief of Police, reporting my adventure in detail, and having "the honor to be, sir, his most obedient servant," according to the prescribed formula, which whosoever observeth not shall not gain the ear of the government of Burmah. In due course I received a reply, in a big brown envelope, assuring me that the matter should be promptly investigated, and having "the honor to be, sir, my most obedient servant." This was polite. The Indian government is great on politeness. But nothing ever came of it. I suppose the Superintendent did his best to ferret the matter out, but he had to work through native policemen, and they may have had reasons of their own for not being too anxious to catch the dacoits.

## A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]

### BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

### CHAPTER XX.

George returned to Alexandria, where his regiment awaited him. He was mad with rage and chagrin. He could have taken censure with humility, feeling sure that whatever mistakes he had made were those of inexperience, not a want of zeal or courage. But to be quietly supplanted, to be asked—after all the hardships and dangers he had passed through, and the exoneration from blame by his countrymen—to take a humiliating place, was more than he felt he ought to bear.

When he reached Alexandria he informed his officers of the resignation of his commission, which would be accepted in a few days; and their reply was an address, which did what all his cares and griefs and hardships had never done—it brought him to tears. A part of the letter ran thus:

> "Sir,—We, your most obedient and affectionate officers, beg leave to express our great concern at the disagreeable news we have received of your determination to resign the command of that corps in which we have, under you, long served. The happiness we have enjoyed and the honor we have acquired, together with the mutual regard that has always subsisted between you and your officers, have implanted so sensible an affection in the minds of us all that we cannot be silent on this critical occasion.

> "Your steady adherence to impartial justice, your quick discernment and invariable regard to merit, first heightened our natural emulation to excel. Judge, then, how sensibly we must be affected with the loss of such an excellent commander, such a sincere friend, such an affable companion. How great the loss of such a man! It gives us additional sorrow, when we reflect, to find our unhappy country will receive a loss no less irreparable than our own. Where will it find a man so experienced in military affairs—one so renowned for patriotism, conduct, and courage? Who has so great a knowledge of the enemy we have to deal with? Who so well acquainted with their situation and strength? Who so much respected by the soldiery? Who, in short, so well able to support the military character of Virginia? We presume to entreat you to lead us on to assist in the glorious work of extirpating our enemies. In you we place the most implicit confidence. Your presence only will cause a steady firmness and vigor to actuate in every breast, despising the greatest dangers, and thinking light of toils and hardships, while led on by the man we know and love."[3]

Deep indeed was the conviction which made George resist this letter; but his reply was characteristic, "I made not this decision lightly, and all I ask is that I may be enabled to go with you in an honorable capacity; but to be degraded and superseded, this I cannot bear."

The Governor was very soon made aware that the soldiers bitterly resented his treatment of their young commander; but he had gone too far to retreat. George, as soon as his resignation was accepted, retired to Mount Vernon; and about the time he left his regiment at Alexandria two frigates sailed up the Potomac with General Braddock, and landed two thousand regular troops for the spring campaign against the French and Indians.

George spent the autumn and winter at Mount Vernon, where, until then, he had spent but one night in fifteen months. After getting his affairs there in some sort of order he visited his sister at Belvoir, and his mother and Betty at Ferry Farm. All of them noticed a change in him. He had grown more grave, and there was a singular[Pg 1263] gentleness in his manner. His quick temper seemed to have been utterly subdued. Betty alone spoke to him of the change she saw.

"I think, dear Betty," he answered, gently, "that no one can go through a campaign such as I have seen without being changed and softened by it. And then I foresee a terrible war with France and discord with the mother-country. We are upon the threshold of great events, depend upon it, of which no man can see the outcome."

The winter was passed in hard work at Mount Vernon. Only by ceaseless labor could George control his restlessness. The military fever was kindled in his veins, and do what he could, there was no subduing it, although he controlled it. Torn between the desire to serve his country as a military man and the sense of a personal and undeserved affront, he scarcely knew what to do. One day, in the fever of his impatience, he would determine to go to Alexandria and enlist as a private in his old corps. Then reason and reflection, which were never long absent from him, would return, and he would realize that his presence under such circumstances would seriously impair the discipline of the corps. And after receiving the officers' letter, and hearing what was said and done among them, he was forced to recognize, in spite of his native modesty, that his old troops would not tolerate that he should be in any position which they conceived inadequate to his deserts. Captain Vanbraam told him much of this one night when he rode from Alexandria to spend the night with George.

"General Braddock is a great, bluff, brave, foolish, hard-drinking, hard-driving Irishman. He does not understand the temper of our soldiers, and has not the remotest conception of Indian fighting, which our enemies have been clever enough to adopt. I foresee nothing but disaster if he carries out the campaign on his present lines. There is but one good sign. He has heard of you, Colonel Washington, and seems to have been impressed by the devotion of your men to you. Last night he said to me, 'Can you not contrive to get this young Colonel over to see me? I observe one strange thing in these provincial troops: they have exactly the same confidence in Colonel Washington now as before his disastrous campaign, and as a soldier I know there must be some great qualities in a commander when even defeat cannot undo him with his men, for your private soldier is commonly a good military critic; so now, my little Dutch Captain'—bringing his great fist down on my back like the hammer on the anvil—'do you bring him to see me. If he will take a place in my military family, by gad it is his.' And, my young Colonel," added Vanbraam, in his quiet way, "I am not so sure it is not your duty to go, for I have a suspicion that this great swashbuckler will bring our troops to such a pass in this campaign that only you can manage them. So return with me to-morrow."

"Let me sleep on it," answered George, with a faint smile.

Next evening, as the General sat in his quarters at the Alexandria Tavern, surrounded by his officers, most of them drinking and swaggering, the General most of all, a knock came at the door, and when it was opened Captain Vanbraam's short figure appeared, and with him George Washington, the finest and most military figure that General Braddock ever remembered to have seen. Something he had once heard of the great Condé came to General Braddock's dull brain when he saw this superb young soldier: "This man was born a captain."

When George was introduced he was received with every evidence of respect. The General, who was a good soldier after a bad pattern, said to him at once:

"Mr. Washington, I have much desired to see you, and will you oblige me by giving me, later on, a full account of your last campaign?" The other officers took the hint, and in a little while George and the General were alone. They remained alone until two o'clock in the morning, and when George came out of the room he had entered as a private citizen he was first aide-de-camp on General Braddock's staff.

As he walked back to Captain Vanbraam's quarters in the dead of night, under a wintry sky, he was almost overwhelmed with conflicting feelings. He was full of joy that he could make the campaign in an honorable position; but General Braddock's utter inability to comprehend what was necessary in such fighting filled him with dread for the brave men who were to be risked in such a venture.

Captain Vanbraam was up waiting for him. In a few words George told what had passed.

"And now," he said, "I must be up and doing, although it is past two o'clock. I must bid my mother good-by, and I foresee there will be no time to do it when once I have reported, which I promised to do within twenty-four hours. By starting now I can reach Ferry Farm by the morning, spend an hour with her, and return here at night; so if you, Captain, will have my horses brought, I will wake up my boy Billy"—for although Billy was quite George's age, he remained ever his "boy."

That morning at Ferry Farm, about ten o'clock, Betty, happening to open the parlor door, ran directly into George's arms, whom she supposed to be forty-five miles off. Betty was speechless with amazement.

"Don't look as if you had seen a rattlesnake, Betty," cried George, giving her a very cruel pinch, "but run, like a good child as you are, though flighty, and tell our mother that I am here."

Before Betty could move a step in marched Madam Washington, stately and beautiful as ever. And there were the three boys, all handsome youths, but handsomer when they were not contrasted with the elder brother; and then, quite gayly and as if he were a mere lad, George plunged into his story, telling his mother that he was to make the campaign with General Braddock as first aide-de-camp, and trying to tell her about the officers' letter, which he took from his pocket, but, blushing very much, was going to return it had not Betty seized it as with an eagle's claw.

"Betty," cried George, stamping his foot, "give me back that letter!"

"No, indeed, George," answered Betty, with calm disdain. "Do not put on any of your grand airs with me. I have heard of this letter, and I mean to read it aloud to our mother. And you may storm and stamp and fume all you like—'tis not of the slightest consequence."

So George, scowling, and yet forced to laugh a little, had to listen to all the compliments paid to him read out in Betty's rich, ringing young voice, while his mother sat and glowed with pride, and his younger brothers hurrahed after the manner of boys; and when Betty had got through the letter her laughing face suddenly changed to a very serious one, and she ran to George and kissed him all over his cheeks, saying,

"Dear George, it makes me so happy that I want to both laugh and cry—dear, dear brother!"

And George, with tender eyes, kissed Betty in return, so that she knew how much he loved her.

When Madam Washington spoke it was in a voice strangely different from her usually calm, musical tones. She had just got the idol of her heart back from all his dangers, and she was loath to let him go again, and told him so.

"But, mother," answered George, after listening to her respectfully, "when I started upon my campaign last year you told me that you placed me in God's keeping. The God to whom you commended me then defended me from all harm, and I trust He will do so now. Do not you?"

Madam Washington paused, and the rare tears stole down her cheeks.

"You are right, my son," she answered, presently. "I will not say another word to detain you, but will once more give you into the hands of the good God to take care of for me."

That night, before twelve o'clock, George reported at Alexandria to General Braddock as his aide.

On the 20th of April, near the time that George had set out the year before, General Braddock began his march from Alexandria in Virginia to the mountains of Pennsylvania, where the reduction of Fort Duquesne was his first object. There were two magnificent regiments of crack British troops and ten companies of Virginia troops, hardy[Pg 1264] and seasoned, and in the highest spirits at the prospect of their young commander being with them. They cheered him vociferously when he appeared, riding with General Braddock, and made him blush furiously. But his face grew very long and solemn when he saw the immense train of wagons to carry baggage and stores which he knew were unnecessary, and the General at that very moment was storming because there were not more.

"These," he said, "were furnished by Mr. Franklin, Postmaster-General of Pennsylvania, and he sends me only a hundred and fifty at that."

"A hundred too many," was George's thought.

The march was inconceivably slow. Never since George could remember had he had so much difficulty in restraining his temper as on that celebrated march. As he said afterwards, "Every mole-hill had to be levelled, and bridges built across every brook." General Braddock wished to march across the trackless wilderness of the Alleghanies as he did across the flat plains of Flanders, and he spent his time in constructing a great military road when he should have been pushing ahead. So slow was their progress that in reaching Winchester George was enabled to make a detour and go to Greenway Court for a few hours. The delight of Lord Fairfax and Lance was extreme, but in a burst of confidence George told them the actual state of affairs.

"What you tell me," said the Earl, gravely, "determines me to go to the low country, for if this expedition results disastrously I can be of more use at Williamsburg than here. But, my dear George, I am concerned for you, because you look ill. You are positively gaunt, and you look as if you had not eaten for a week."

"Ill!" cried George, beginning to walk up and down the library, and clinching and unclinching his fists nervously. "My lord, it is my heart and soul that are ill. Can you think what it is to watch a General, brave but obstinate and blind to the last degree, rushing upon disaster? Upon my soul, sir, those English officers think, I verily believe, that the Indians are formed into regiments and battalions, with a general staff and a commissary, and God knows what!" And George raved a while longer before he left to ride back to Winchester, with Billy riding after him. This outbreak was so unlike George, he looked so strange, his once ruddy face was so pallid at one moment and so violently flushed at another, that the Earl and Lance each felt an unspoken dread that his strong body might give way under the strain upon it.

George galloped back into Winchester that night. Both his horse and Billy's were dripping wet, and as he pulled his horse almost up on his haunches Billy said, in a queer voice:

"Hi, Marse George, d'yar blood on yo' bridle. You rid dat hoss hard, sho 'nough!"

"Hold your tongue!" shouted George, in a tone that Billy had never heard from him before; and then, in the next minute, he said, confusedly, "I did not mean to speak so, but my head is in a whirl; I think I must be ill."

And as he spoke he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen had not Billy run forward and caught him. He staggered into the house where he had lodgings, and got into his bed, and by midnight he was raving with fever.

Billy had sense enough to go for Dr. Craik, George's old acquaintance, who had volunteered as surgeon to General Braddock's staff. He was a bright-eyed, determined-looking man, still young, but skilled in his profession. By morning the fever was reduced, and Dr. Craik was giving orders about the treatment as he sat by George's bedside, for the army was to resume its march that day.

"Your attack is sharp," said the doctor, "but you have an iron constitution, and with ordinary care you will soon be well."

George, pale and haggard, but without fever, listened to the doctor's directions with a half smile. The troops were already on the move; outside could be heard the steady tramp of feet, the thunder of horses' hoofs, the roll of artillery-wagons, and the commotion of an army on the move. In a few moments the doctor left him, saying,

"I think you will shortly be able to rejoin the army, Colonel Washington."

"I think so too," answered George.

As soon as the doctor was out of the room George turned to Billy, and said,

"Help me on with my clothes, and as soon as the troops are well out of the town fetch the horses."

When the soldiers halted at noon, General Braddock, sitting under a tree by the road-side, was asking Dr. Craik's opinion of the time that Colonel Washington could rejoin, when around the corner of a huge bowlder rode George[Pg 1265] with Billy behind him. He was very pale, but he could sit his horse. He could not but laugh at the doctor's angry face, but said, deprecatingly, to him,

"I would have fretted myself more ill had I remained at Winchester, for I am not by nature patient, and I have been ill so little that I do not know how to be ill."

"I see you don't," was the doctor's dry reply.

For four days George kept up with the army, and managed, in spite of burning fevers, of a horrible weakness and weariness, of sleepless nights racked with pain, to ride his horse. On the fifth he was compelled to take to a covered wagon. There, on a rough bed, with Billy holding his burning head, he was jolted along for ten days more, each day more agonizing than the one before. In that terrible time master and man seemed to have changed places. It was George who was fretful and unreasonable and wildly irritable, while Billy, the useless, the lazy, the incorrigible, nursed him with a patience, a tenderness, a strange intelligence that amazed all who saw it, and was even dimly felt by George. The black boy seemed able to do altogether without sleep. At every hour of the day and night he was awake and alert, ready to do anything for the poor sufferer. As the days passed on, and George grew steadily worse, the doctor began to look troubled. In his master's presence Billy showed no sign of fear, but he would every day follow Dr. Craik when he left, and ask him, with an ashy face, "Marse doctor, is Marse George gwi' die?"

"I hope not. He is young and strong, and God is good."

"Ef he die, an' I go home, what I gwin' say when mistis come out and say, 'Billy, wh'yar yo' Marse George?'" And at that Billy would throw himself on the ground in a paroxysm of grief that was piteous to see. The doctor carefully concealed from the soldiers George's real condition. But after four or five days of agony a change set in, and within the week George was able to sit up and even to ride a little. The wagons had kept with the rear division of the army, but George knew that General Braddock, with twelve hundred picked men, had gone ahead and must be near Fore Duquesne. On the fourteenth day, in the evening when the doctor came he found his patient walking about. He was frightfully thin and pale, but youth and strength and good habits were beginning to assert themselves. He was getting well.

"Doctor," said he, "this place is about fifteen miles from Fort Duquesne. I know it well, and from this hour I emancipate myself from you. This day I shall report for duty."

The next morning, the 9th of July, 1755, dawned beautifully, and the first long lances of light revealed a splendid sight on the banks of the Monongahela. On one side flowed the great river in majestic beauty. Following the shores was a kind of natural esplanade, while a little way off the rich woods, within which dwelt forever a purple twilight, overhung this charming open space. And along this open space marched, in exquisite precision, two thousand of England's crack troops—cavalry, infantry, and artillery—and a thousand bronzed Virginian soldiery, to the music of the fife and drum. Often in after-years George Washington was heard to say that the most beautiful sight his eyes ever rested on was the sight of Braddock's army at sunrise on that day of blood. Officers and men were in the highest spirits; they expected within a few hours to be in sight of Fort Duquesne, where glory, as they thought, awaited their coming. Even George's apprehensions of the imprudence of this mode of attack were soothed. He rode by General Braddock's side, and was by far the most conspicuous figure there for grace and nobility. His illness seemed to have departed in a night, and he was the same erect, soldierly form, fairly dwarfing every one contrasted with him. As the General and his first aide rode together, General Braddock said, confidently:

"Colonel Washington, in spite of your warning, see how far we have come upon our way without disaster. The danger of an attack by Indians is now passed, and we have but to march a few miles more and glory is ours."

Scarcely were the words out of his month when there was one sharp crack of a gun, followed by a fierce volley, and fifty men dropped in their tracks. But there was no enemy visible. The shots were like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky.

"The Indians," said George, in a perfectly composed voice, reining up his horse.

"I see no Indians," cried General Braddock, excitedly. "There is disorder in the ranks; have them closed up at once, and march in double-time. We will soon find the enemy."

But the firing from the invisible foe again broke forth, this time fiercer and more murderous than before. General Braddock, riding to the head of the first regiment, which had begun to waver, shouted the order for them to reform and fire. The veteran troops, as coolly as if on parade, closed up their ranks and gave a volley, but it was as if fired in the air. They saw no enemy to fire at. Meanwhile the Virginia troops, after the first staggering effect of a terrific musketry fire poured into them by an unseen enemy, suddenly broke ranks, and, each man running for a tree, took possession of the skirts of the woods. On seeing this General Braddock galloped up to George.

[Pg 1266]

"Colonel Washington," he cried, violently, "your Virginia troops are insubordinate! They have scattered through the woods, and I desire them formed again in column of fours to advance."

"Sir," answered George, in agony, "the ravines are full of Indians—many hundreds of them. They can slaughter us at their pleasure if we form in the open. The Virginians know how to fight them."

"You are an inexperienced soldier, sir, and therefore I excuse you. But look at my English veterans—see how they behave—and I desire the Virginians to do the same."

At that moment George's horse fell upon his knees, and the next he rolled over, shot through the heart. The English regiments had closed up manfully, after receiving several destructive volleys, returning the fire of their assailants without seeing them and without producing the smallest effect. But suddenly the spectacle of half their men dead or wounded on the ground, the galloping about of riderless horses, the shrieks of agony that filled the air, seemed to unman them. They broke and ran in every direction. In vain General Braddock rode up to them, actually riding over them, waving his sword and calling to them to halt.

The men who had faced the legions of Europe were panic-stricken by this dreadful unseen foe, and fled, only to be shot down in their tracks. To make it more terrible, the officers were singled out for slaughter, and out of eighty-six officers in a very little while twenty-six were killed and thirty-seven wounded. General Braddock himself had his horse shot under him, and as he rolled on the ground a cry of pain was wrung from him by two musket-balls that pierced his body. Of his three aides, two lay weltering in their blood, and George alone was at his side helping him to rise.

Rash and obstinate as General Braddock might be, he did not lack for courage, and in that awful time he was determined to fight to the last.

"Get me another horse," he said, with difficulty, to George. "Are you too wounded?"

"No, General, but I have had two horses shot under me. Here is my third one. Mount!" And by the exertion of an almost superhuman strength he raised General Braddock's bulky figure from the ground and placed him in the saddle.

"I am badly wounded," said General Braddock, as he reeled slightly; "but I can sit my horse yet. Your Virginians are doing nobly, but they should form in column."

Besotted to the end, but seeing that the Virginians alone were standing their ground, General Braddock did not give a positive order, and George did not feel obliged to obey this murderous mistake. But General Braddock, after a gasp or two, turned a livid face towards George.

"Colonel Washington, the command is yours. I am more seriously wounded than I thought." He swayed forward, and but for George would have fallen from his horse.

GEORGE DID ALL THAT MORTAL MAN COULD DO TO RALLY THE PANIC-STRICKEN MEN.

The panic was now at its height. Men, horses, wagons, all piled together in a terrible mélée, made for the rear; but there, again, they were met by a hail of bullets. Staggered, they rushed back, only to be again mowed down by the hidden enemy. The few officers left commanded, begged, and entreated the men to stand firm; but they, who had faced death upon a hundred fields, were now so mad with fear that they were incapable of obedience. George, who had managed to have General Braddock carried to the rear with the aid of Dr. Craik, had got another horse, and riding from one end of the bloody field to the other, did all that mortal man could do to rally the panic-stricken men, but it was in vain. His clothes were riddled with bullets, but in the midst of the carnage around him he was unharmed, and rode over the field like the embodied spirit of battle.

The Virginians alone, cool and determined, fought steadily and sold their lives dearly, although picked off one by one. At last, after hours of panic, flight, and slaughter, George succeeded in bringing off the remnant of the Virginians, and, overtaking the fleeing mob of regular troops some miles from the scene of the conflict, got them across the ford of the Monongahela. They were safe from pursuit, for the handful of Frenchmen could not persuade their Indian allies to leave the plunder of the battle-field for the pursuit of the enemy. The first thing that George did was to send immediately for wagons, which had been left behind, to transport the wounded. General Braddock, still alive but suffering agonies from his wounds, was carried on horseback, then in a cart, and at last, the jolting being intolerable, on a litter upon the shoulders of four sturdy backwoodsmen. But he was marked for death. On the third day of this terrible retreat, towards sunset, he sank into a lethargy. George, who had spent every moment possible by his side, turned to Dr. Craik, who shook his head significantly—there was no hope. As George dismounted and walked by the side of the litter, the better to hear any words the dying soldier might utter, General Braddock roused a little.

"Colonel Washington," he said, in a feeble voice, "I am satisfied with your conduct. We have had bad fortune—very bad fortune; but"—here his mind began to wander—"yonder is the smoke rising from the chimneys; we shall soon be home and at rest. Good-night, Colonel Washington—"

THE BURIAL OF GENERAL BRADDOCK.

The men with the litter stopped. George, with an over-burdened heart, watched the last gasp of a rash but brave and honorable soldier, and presently gently closed his eyes. At daylight the body of General Braddock, wrapped in his military cloak, was buried under a great oak-tree in the woods by the side of the highway, and then the mournful march was resumed.

The news of the disaster had preceded them, and when George, attended only by Captain Vanbraam and a few of his Virginian officers, rode into Williamsburg on an August evening, it was with the heaviest heart he had ever carried in his bosom. But by one of those strange paradoxes ever existing in the careers of men of destiny, the events that had brought ruin to others only served to exalt him personally. His gallant conduct in battle, his miraculous escape, his bringing off the survivors, especially among the Virginia troops, and the knowledge which had come about that had his advice been heeded the terrible disaster would not have taken place—all conspired to make him still more of a popular hero. Not only his own men adored him, and pointed out that he had saved all that could be saved on that dreadful day, but the British troops as well saw that the glory was his, and the return march was one long ovation to the one officer who came out of the fight with a greater reputation than when he entered it. Everywhere crowds met him with acclamations and with tears. The streets of the quaint little town of Williamsburg were filled with people on this summer evening, who followed the party of officers, with George at their head, to the palace. George responded to the shouts for him by bowing gracefully from side to side.

Arrived at the palace, he dismounted, and just as the sentry at the main door presented arms to him he saw a party coming out, and they were the persons he most desired to see in the world and least expected. First came the Earl of Fairfax with Madam Washington, whom he was about to hand down the steps and into his coach, which had not yet driven up. Behind them demurely walked Betty, and behind Betty came Lance, carrying the mantles of the two ladies.

The Earl and Madam Washington, engaged in earnest conversation, did not catch sight of George until Betty had rushed forward, and crying out in rapture, "George, dear George!" they saw the brother and sister clasped in each other's arms.

Madam Washington stood quite still, dumfounded with joy, until George, kissing her hand tenderly, made her realize that it was indeed he, her best beloved, saved from almost universal destruction and standing before her. She, the calmest, the stateliest of women, trembled, and had to lean upon him for support; the Earl grasped his hand; Lance was in waiting. George was as overcome with joy as they were.

"But I must ask at once to see the Governor," said he, after the first rapture of meeting was over. "You, my lord, must go with me, for I want friends near me when I tell the story of sorrow and disaster."

[Pg 1267]

Four days afterwards, the House of Burgesses being in session, Colonel Washington was summoned by the Speaker to read his report of the campaign before it, and to be formally designated as commander-in-chief of the forces. The facts were already known, but it was thought well, in order to arouse the people to the sense of their danger, and to provide means for carrying on the war in defence of their frontiers, that Colonel Washington should make a public report, and should publicly receive the appointment of commander-in-chief of the next expedition. The House of Burgesses, then as ever proudly insistent of its rights, had given the Governor to understand that they would give him neither money nor supplies unless their favorite soldier should have the command in the next campaign—and, indeed, the attitude of the officers and soldiery made this absolutely necessary. Even the Governor had realized this, and, disheartened by the failure of his much-heralded regulars, was in a submissive mood, and these haughty colonial legislators, of whose republican principles Governor Dinwiddie already complained much, took this opportunity to prove that without their co-operation but little could be done.

The large hall of the House of Burgesses, but dimly lighted by small diamond-paned windows, was filled with the leading men of the colony, including Lord Fairfax. Ladies had been admitted to the floor, and among them sat in majestic beauty Madam Washington, and next to her sat Betty, palpitating, trembling, blushing, who with proud, bright eyes awaited the entrance of her "darling George," as she called him, although often reproved for her extravagance by her mother.

At last George entered this august assembly. His handsome head was uncovered, showing his fair hair. He wore a glittering uniform, and his sword, given him by Lord Fairfax, hung at his side. He carried himself with that splendid and noble air that was always his characteristic, and, quietly seating himself, awaited the interrogatory of the president. When this was made he rose respectfully and began to read from manuscript the sad story of Braddock's campaign. It was brief, but every sentence thrilled all who heard it. When he said, in describing the terrible story of the 9th of July, "The officers in general behaved with incomparable bravery, for which they suffered, upwards of sixty being killed or wounded," a kind of groan ran through the great assemblage; and when he added, in a voice shaken with emotion, "The Virginia companies behaved like men and died like soldiers; for, I believe, out of three companies on the ground that day scarce thirty men were left alive," sobs were heard, and many persons, both men and women, burst into tears.

His report being ended, the president of the House of Burgesses arose and addressed him:

"Colonel Washington, we have listened to your account of the late campaign with feelings of the deepest and most poignant sorrow, but without abandoning in any way our intention to maintain our lawful frontiers against our enemies. It has been determined to raise sixteen companies in this colony for offensive and defensive warfare, and by the appointment of his Excellency the Governor, in deference to the will of the people and the desire of the soldiers, you are hereby appointed, by this commission from his Excellency the Governor, which I hold in my hand, commander-in-chief of all the forces now raised or to be raised by this colony, reposing special confidence in your patriotism, valor, conduct, and fidelity. And you are hereby invested with power and authority to act as you shall think for the good of the service.

"And we hereby strictly charge all officers and soldiers under your command to be obedient to your orders, and diligent in the exercise of their several duties.

"And we also enjoin and require you to be careful in executing the great trust reposed in you, by causing strict discipline and order to be observed in the army, and that the soldiers be duly exercised and provided with all necessaries.

"And you are to regulate your conduct in every respect by the rules and discipline of war, and punctually to observe and follow such orders and directions as you shall receive from his Excellency the Governor, and this or other House of Burgesses, or committee of the House of Burgesses."

A storm of applause broke forth, and George stood silent, trembling and abashed, with a noble diffidence. He raised one hand in deprecation, and it was taken to mean that he would speak, and a solemn hush fell upon the assembly. But in the perfect silence he felt himself unable to utter a word, or even to lift his eyes from the floor. The president sat in a listening attitude for a whole minute, then he said:

"Sit down, Colonel Washington. Your modesty is equal to your valor, and both are above comparison. Your life would not have been spared, as if by a miracle, had not the all-wise Ruler of the heavens and the earth designed that you should fulfil your great destiny; and one day, believe me, you shall be called the prop, the stay, and the glory of your country."

#### THE END.

## THE SMALL BOY IN WAR.

### BY C. E. SEARS.

Much has been recently said and written about the resources of the nation in the event of war, the fighting capacity of our army and navy, and the character of recruits who would constitute the new army that must be speedily organized should a conflict result from present complications. The valor of the veterans who participated in our civil war has been often dwelt on, but nowhere have I seen any calculation based on the intrepidity and wild courage of the small boy—an element that constitutes a more important factor in every successful campaign than most people imagine. Literature is full of accounts of the small boy at school and at play. Humorists have depicted his weaknesses, his mischievous proclivities, and volunteer poets have made him the victim of rhyming obituaries. Dickens has painted him in pathetic colors, Thackeray has alternately satirized and sympathized with him, and Hughes has described him in his character of friend and fighter. None of his peculiarities has escaped detection. His disappointments have been ridiculed, his triumphs belittled; nor have even his sorrows been held sacred from the rude analysis and heartless ridicule of maturer and more conceited minds. While asleep the pockets of his little pants have been invaded, and their curious collections exposed to excite merriment. If he wears his cap-brim backward, smuts his face with sooty fingers or marks the progress of the season with fruit stains on his clothes, whistles from the gallery of the theatre, guys the actors, projects spiral play-bills on the spectators below, tortures the house cat, fights chickens in out-of-the-way places, or burglarizes his sister's safety bank of its pennies, he is condemned and often lashed. And these are penalties he pays for existence outside of the school-room. His life there is one of continued anxiety and peril. But this part of his history has been over and over narrated. My purpose is to give some account of the small boy on the battle-field—not in the petty conflicts that occur on the play-ground, but in the fiercer and bloodier clash of arms, where the very souls of grown men were tried, and where they were oftener found wanting than the small boy.

After Julius Cæsar had conquered Gaul, Britain, and Egypt, and had even overcome the great Pompey at Pharsalia, he found a victory over Pompey's two sons, mere lads, in Spain, a very different enterprise. Encountering them at the great battle of Munda, his army was about to yield before their intrepid leadership, when he rushed among his men, exclaiming, "Will you deliver me into the hands of boys?" He afterwards said he had often fought for victory, but it was the first time he had fought for his life.

Mr. Bryan, in a speech in Congress, made good use of an incident recorded by Muelbach, who narrated that at Marengo, when Napoleon gave up the battle as lost, and ordered a drummer-boy to beat a retreat, the lad's face saddened[Pg 1268] as he said: "Sire, I do not know how. Dessaix has never taught me retreat, but I can beat a charge. Oh, I can beat a charge that would make the dead fall into line! I beat it at Mount Tabor; I beat it at the Pyramids. Oh, may I beat it here?" The charge was ordered, and victory plucked from the jaws of defeat by the little hands of that heroic lad.

The incident is fanciful, but it is illustrative. There is a stone wall in a cemetery at Paris where many Communists were executed. When I saw it the wall still bore marks of shot, and fragments of the skin and hair of the victims were matted to the masonry. A lad who had been among the fiercest of the fighters was one of the condemned. While marching near his home and to the place of execution, he told the officer in command that he had a locket which he had just taken from the body of his dead father, and begged that he might bear it to his mother, promising to return and resume his place in the fated line. The officer, touched by his tender age, gave the permission, hoping and believing he would not return, thus sparing him the necessity of executing a mere child. Before the line reached its destination, however, the lad came up with hasty steps, stood against the wall, and faced the soldiers. The first volley tore out his brave little heart.

The cradles of France furnished the troops who fought and won the desperate battle of Wagram. "In my young soldiers," said Napoleon, "I have found all the valor of my old companions in arms."

The small boy as a soldier has never had a historian. No Foy or Napier or Thiers has done justice to his heroism; but he furnishes much of the enthusiasm, the dash and fury, of every triumphant army. It was the small boy of France who helped to win those marvellous victories under the revolutionary government of 1789, and, later, under Napoleon. When Wellington was contending against Marshal Soult in Spain, he got a number of young recruits from England whose smooth faces and dudish uniforms excited the derision of veterans. But when the conflict came they were foremost in the charge. The Duke, who had shared the contempt for these "parlor soldiers," was forced to admit that "the puppies fought well. They report oftener for duty, are capable of more endurance, and are irresistible in a charge. They need only a few veterans to steady them in action. Some are timid in the first encounter, as was Frederick the Great, but they soon overcome it." It was "a narrow lane, an old man and two boys," that saved the battle in Cymbeline, and forced on the Romans better thought of Britons than when Julius Cæsar "smiled at their lack of skill." The soul contributes more than the body to results. Take a boy of eighteen, inspire him with enthusiasm, and however fragile in form, he will outstrip, both on the march and in the field, the less impressible men with twice his physical strength. I have seen trudging in the ranks of Lee's army striplings whose equipments almost outweighed their delicate bodies. But they straggled less, were sick less, and were foremost in the fight. When the hour of battle came their faces brightened with a beautiful light, a smile would play over their features, and their disposition to cheer and charge became irrepressible. It has been said that the most dangerous antagonists are those who value their own lives the least; and these lads seemed not to think of either life or death, but the foe, the foe, and to be up and at them. Must a battery be captured? They rushed at it, and recked not of the terror and death it belched forth. Must a redoubt be carried? Forward they leaped so swift and brave, not counting the bristling mass that defended it.

"I AM THE KING'S DRUMMER AND CANNOT BEAT FOR REBELS."

Another and well-known incident of the bravery of a boy is the one which is told of a young drummer in 1798 who, in an engagement between the rebels and the King's troops, was captured. During the fight he was ordered by his captors to beat the drum for them. Without a moment's hesitation he placed his drum on the ground and put his foot through both heads, then sitting down he said, "I am the King's drummer and cannot beat for rebels."

All who have seen anything of war appreciate the presence of the small boy in the ranks, for he must be reckoned with in the hours of battle. A fury blazes in his little frame that nerves his delicate arm and gives a tiger-spring to his step.

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One of the principal difficulties which have to be faced every year by the managers of interscholastic athletics is the choice of proper and competent officials for league games. It is not so difficult in the spring-time to get umpires for baseball games, but in the fall if seems to be an exceedingly difficult matter to secure the proper kind of officials for the football matches.

Not only is this difficulty encountered in New York, but we often hear of the same trouble in Boston and Philadelphia, and other great athletic centres. The main difficulty seems to be in securing referees and umpires who shall be thoroughly impartial. Inasmuch as the men who can be secured to act as officials at school games are usually graduates of the schools, or are still in the schools, or are teachers at the schools, there is always the chance that they may be more or less interested in the success of one team or the other, and so not entirely impartial in their decisions, in spite of having the best of intentions.

If it were only possible to secure the co-operation of graduates of two or three years' standing, both in this city and in others, the question of officials would be settled. This, however, would be the ideal solution of the vexing problem, and can hardly be hoped for. It might be possible to get a list of such gentlemen, who are familiar with the sport, and who would be willing, for the sake of the promotion of the sport, to give one afternoon each season to the game.

In Boston there has been so much trouble over the matter of securing competent officials for the football-games that a committee of the head masters of the schools interested finally took up the question, and, after going thoroughly into its merits, reported to the Football Association, whose executive committee thereupon passed the following resolutions:

> "Voted, that all games officials should be approved by the executive committee of the association before being allowed to act, and that the officials should be, when possible, men of college rank.

> "Voted, that the secretary of the association be empowered to act by the executive committee as regards the approval of games officials, except in such cases where he shall desire to call a meeting of the whole committee."

It is plain now that when this rule goes into effect, the old system of waiting to choose the officials until the teams appear upon the football field ready to play will be done away with. The captains of the teams are now compelled to meet the secretary of the Football Association before the game, and to decide upon the officials at that time. This will dispose of one of the difficulties; but the greatest difficulty of all, that of securing the individuals themselves, of getting them to promise to come, and of having them appear after they have promised, is one that cannot be overcome by legislation. It is a condition that can only be improved by an increased interest among college men in the sports of their juniors.

Among other things done by the Executive Committee of the Boston Interscholastic Football Association was the reconsideration of its former decision to compel the Cambridge High and Latin schools to compete in athletics as two separate institutions. C.H. and L. petitioned to be readmitted to the Senior Football League as a single school, and their cause was very strongly championed by a number of graduates at the recent committee meeting.

The result was that C.H. and L. was readmitted to the Senior League, and for this year at least the two schools will be represented by a single eleven. It is greatly to be hoped, however, that the young man who captains this year's team will make it his especial business to find out all about the men under him, and to know whether they attend the High or the Latin school, or neither. In this way he will avoid making the rather unexplainable mistake which occurred last year.

The decision of the committee has infused new life into the many football-players of C.H. and L., and active practice has been begun by the various squads. Warnock has been elected captain; and as this move was made upon the advice of a number of graduates, it is probable that the new leader will prove to be a man competent to avoid the pitfalls which proved so disastrous to his predecessor.

Not more than four or five of the men who played on last year's team are back in school this year. Among them is Estabrook, who will retain his old position at centre. One of his guards will undoubtedly be Usher. The[Pg 1270] tackles will probably be Fletcher and Simmons. Captain Warnock will undoubtedly go in and look after one end of the line. Back of the line we shall probably see Clarkson at quarter, and the other positions ought to be divided among Donovan, Lewis, and Hill. But it is too early to make much of a prognostication, as football was somewhat disorganized at C.H. and L. in the early part of the fall on account of the uncertainty in the future, which has now been settled by the executive committee's action.

The Hartford High-School team, after its rather poor showing a few weeks ago, has taken a big brace, and is displaying somewhat of its old-time form. The eleven went up to Springfield a week or so ago, and defeated the High-School eleven there, 18-10. The team-work on that occasion was much better than Hartford had done at any time this year, and the general snap of the players was noticeably improved.

This good work was followed up a week ago Friday in the game against Hillhouse, in which the latter was defeated, 16-4. The weakest spot in the Hartford team was right guard, which is filled by Costello. The Hillhouse men made all their gains through him, with hardly any exception. Captain Sturtevant was unable to play at quarter on account of injuries received in the Springfield game, and this may possibly account for the many holes made through guard. Had Sturtevant been at his usual post, it is probable that he could have headed off some of the runs that got past Costello. Two of Hartford's touch-downs were made by Bush, who is developing into a strong player.

The Hillhouse players fumbled badly, and many of their fumbles proved most expensive. They had gotten the ball to within one yard of the Hartford line, when they lost it through inability to keep their fingers on the leather. The New Haven men's defence was weak too, and Hartford had little trouble in getting around the ends. Their best work was done by Morris, Sternberg, and Wolfe. For Hartford the best playing was done by Bush, Strong, Twichell, and Allen.

If this improvement in the Hartford team continues, New Britain will not have such a sure thing of the championship as we all had reason to suppose a few days ago. The line-up for the rest of the season will probably be as follows: Whaples and Gillette, ends; Allen and Morris, tackles; Weeks and Costello, guards; Smith, centre; Strong and Bush, half-backs; Sturtevant, quarter-back and captain; Twichell, full-back. This team will average about 154 pounds, and, unusual as it is, the backs will average 156 pounds, two pounds heavier than the rush-line.

ENGLEWOOD HIGH-SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM.
Cook County Interscholastic League.

The Cook County High-School Football League's season began October 10. If we may judge from the initial game, there are four strong teams and four weak teams in the Association. Englewood H.-S. so badly out-classed Northwest Division in the first half, scoring 30-0, that the Northwest men did not care to play out the second half, which was exceedingly unsportsmanlike. Teetzel did not play for Englewood in this game, but Ferguson went in at right half in his place, and did good work. He made a number of long runs, and proved a clever substitute. The Northwest eleven did not have sufficient team-work to prevent Englewood's plays.

TEETZEL, HALF-BACK.
Englewood High-School, Chicago.

Another one-sided match was that between West Division and North Division, in which the Northerners routed the Westerners, 42-0, in 20-minute halves. West Division seemed to go to pieces in the face of the excellent team-work of North Division. Johnson, the N.D. left half-back, made a number of good runs, assisted by interference. On the whole there was little individual play, the men working well in concert.

LINDEN, END.
Hyde Park High-School, Chicago.

It was doubtless a surprise to Oak Park to be defeated, 44-0, by Lake View. Oak Park's centre was lamentably weak, and the Lake View men went through it repeatedly, and when they got tired of bucking the line they travelled easily around the ends. Evanston defeated Manual, 28-0. Manual had no team-work at all, and was defeated principally on this account, although Evanston had little trouble in making holes between guard and tackle on both sides of the line.

In the game between Hyde Park and English High, Hyde Park made a touch-down at the very start. Then followed a series of fumbles, first by Knickerbocker of Hyde Park, who caught the kick off; then by Sullivan of English High, who secured the ball and made a good run, only to lose the leather to Hyde Park again. This incident was the cause for a display of bad feeling and ill-breeding, and, worst of all, of unsportsmanlike instincts.

The English High players refused to accept the decision of the referee, and left the field, subsequently protesting the game; but, very fortunately for the good name of the Chicago League, their protest was not sustained, and the game went to Hyde Park, as it should have.

In the Inter-preparatory League the initial games were between the Princeton-Yale and University schools, the latter winning, 10-8. This game was much closer than any played by the Cook County teams, although the contesting elevens were not made up of such good men, but were more evenly matched. Fumbling was plentiful, and gave Henneberry, one of the University School half-backs, a chance to make a 40-yard run.

#### "TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."—Illustrated.—8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

The Graduate.

> This Department is conducted in the interest of Stamp and Coin Collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Stamp Department.

Collectors in the West are warned against an old-time philatelist who is going about offering "specimen" sets of the U.S. stamps at very low prices. Several of these sets have been sent to me for examination. They prove to be card-board proofs rubbed down with pumice-stone, gummed, and perforated. The word "specimen," instead of being printed, was then applied, by means of a rubber-stamp, in aniline ink. These are very dangerous frauds, as few young collectors are familiar with the genuine originals. Unused U.S. stamps and "specimen" sets are always saleable in New York city at fair prices. When any one offers these stamps at "bargain-counter" rates, it is safe to say that there is something wrong in the transaction.

The Nova Scotia "find" made a very little flurry in this country, but in England it has developed into a first-class sensation. The leading dealers are involved, and letters to one another and to the philatelic press abound; but, curious to say, no definite information is given. The facts seem to be that one large dealer was offered sets at sixty-two cents, and several weeks later another large dealer advertised himself as the sole agent for the sale of these stamps, and fixed six dollars as the price of the set. In the absence of any statement as to the true quantity of each of the stamps, collectors refuse to buy except at very low prices.

A Western philatelic paper proposes the riddle, "What is the difference between stamp-albums and clocks?" and answers it as follows: "The latter points out the hours, the former causes us to forget them."

[Pg 1271]

The auction season has begun, and most of the larger sales will be held in the hall of the Collectors Club, 351 Fourth Avenue, New York. The value of stamps sold by auction in London during the past season was nearly $200,000, and the auction sales during the same period in the United States amounted to a somewhat larger sum.

> R. B. Haddock.—The 1856 flying eagle is the only small cent that dealers care to buy. They offer from $1.50 to $2 for a fine copy. The 3c. piece is quite common.

> F. G. Tupper.—Your half-dollar is worth face only. Most of the early dollars and half-dollars were in the same style.

> H. C. Day.—The U.S. envelopes of the present issue differ slightly from the preceding. The main difference is in the water-mark of the paper, and advanced collectors make at least eight varieties. I have not room to give all the varieties.

Philatus.

## ADVERTISEMENTS.

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#### ROYAL BAKING POWDER CO., NEW-YORK.

## Postage Stamps, &c.

The neatest and most attractive Stamp Album ever published is The Favorite Album for U.S. Stamps. Price 25c. (post free 30c.).

Catalogue of U.S. Stamps free for the postage, 2c. Complete Catalogue of all Stamps ever issued, 10c. Our Specialty: Fine Approval Sheets at low prices and 50% commission.

#### R. F. ALBRECHT & CO.,

#### 90 Nassau Street, New York.

THE market value of the 7c. Vermilion, 1872, United States, is 75 cents, but in order to increase the circulation of my price-list of stamps, I will send one of these stamps and a copy of my list to any one sending me 30 cents and the names and addresses of five or more stamp collectors.

#### E. T. PARKER, Bethlehem, Penn.

## 10 BOOKS FREE

On tricks, experiments in electricity, in chemistry, war, puzzles, 4 of stories, coins we buy, 4 on stamps, stamp dictionary, toy making. Send 35c. for youth's paper, 1 year, and choose any ten books.

#### BULLARD, Pembroke St., Boston, Mass.

100, all dif., & fine STAMP ALBUM, only 10c.; 200, all dif., Hayti, Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Agents wanted at 50 per cent. com. List FREE! C. A. Stegmann, 5941 Cote Brilliant Ave., St. Louis, Mo.

Coldwater, Mich. See ad. in H.R.T. Sept. 29th for bargains. Large col'n bought. Agents wanted. 50% com.

## STAMPS

10 stamps and large list FREE!

#### L. Dover & Co., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.

## 200

Foreign Stamps, 10c. Agt's wanted. 60% discount.

#### Lou. O. Brosie, 3405 Butler St., Pittsburg, Pa.

## Harper's Magazine

### For 1897

will contain

George du Maurier.

### GEORGE DU MAURIER'S

Last Novel

## The Martian

which was begun in the October Number.

#### POULTNEY BIGELOW

will contribute papers on

### WHITE MAN'S AFRICA

with many illustrations.

#### STEPHEN BONSAL on EASTERN SIBERIA

#### F. HOPKINSON SMITH on HUNGARY

#### A New Novel of the Next Century

BY

Frank R. Stockton.

### FRANK R. STOCKTON

will appear during the year.

#### SHORT STORIES

will continue to be the most popular feature of the Magazine.

Besides contributions from authors already famous, others

will be especially sought from NEW WRITERS.

#### STRIKING AMERICAN FEATURES

WILL BE CONTRIBUTED BY

CHARLES F. LUMMIS, WOODROW WILSON, OWEN WISTER,

FREDERIC REMINGTON, AND WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

35 CENTS A COPY. $4.00 A YEAR.

#### HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

[Pg 1272]

> This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our maps and tours contain many valuable data kindly supplied from the official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen. Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L.A.W., the Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership blanks and information so far as possible.

There are many questions connected with what to the average rider would be long journeys on a bicycle which seldom or never obtain the amount of attention which they require in order to give the rider the comfort and pleasure that he ought to have.

For instance, the packing of luggage is one of the most important details of a week's run. The best method for carrying luggage is that already described in this column, namely, a leather bag fitted to the inside of the frame. The proper luggage for a week should be the smallest set of toilet articles that can be conveniently used, a couple of sets of under-clothing, and at least two extra pairs of long stockings, and, perhaps most important of all, a pair of loose slippers. When starting out in the morning the entire clothing which you wear should be perfectly dry. This can always be accomplished if it is done in the right way, by asking a maid at the hotel where you stop at night to see that all your clothes are dried during the night, and it is well to dress in a different suit each day, except, of course, the trousers and jacket. When you stop at noon for the hour or two for dinner, with the intention of riding on in the afternoon, the greatest care should be taken to avoid taking cold, especially in the fall and winter weather. In the first place, you should wrap yourself up usually by putting on the coat and waistcoat which you have been carrying on the front of the wheel or in the leather portmanteau. It is unwise, however, to take a bath and change the clothing at this time of day, and therefore merely the rest and the dinner should be your care at noon. After riding all the afternoon, the moment the bicycle is stowed away or put under some one's care, go to your room at the hotel and take a bath. If there happens to be no bath-tub available, which is often the case at small inns or country hotels, take a sponge bath—always in warm water at first, ending with cold. There is considerable danger to any one who takes a warm bath after heavy physical exertion and omits the cold water afterward. It is one of the best methods known for catching a dangerous cold.

The food which you eat on these journeys is quite as important as any other of the details of the ride. It is always well, if that be possible, to sit still reading the paper, or smoking, or resting in any way, for from three-quarters of an hour to an hour after each meal. For breakfast, oatmeal, coffee, and perhaps a couple of eggs with toast is quite as much as it is well for you to take, unless you have been in the habit of eating a very heavy breakfast. If the journey is to be continued in the afternoon, it is well not to eat too heavily at dinner, and you are advised to stick to water for drink. Then after the afternoon ride, after a good bath, and with a change of clothing and the slippers on, at anywhere from six to eight o'clock, you may eat as much and take as much time at table as you care to. If this rule is followed, you will wake up the next morning fresh and ready for the day's run.

## THE BABY SPEAKS.

I've got a joke on pa and ma—
They say 'at I can't walk.
It really makes me laugh right out
To hear those people talk.
Why, I can walk as well as you,
So grand in all your pride,
But for the present "Baby" thinks
He'd much prefer to ride.

## Money Prizes Offered Subscribers.

The attention of all subscribers to Harper's Round Table is called to the prize competitions which we are offering for the winter of 1896-7. These Prizes are worth, in all, $475, and are offered for original Short Stories, Amateur Photographs, and Puzzle Solutions. Contestants for them must be bona fide subscribers to Harper's Round Table, save in Puzzle contests, in which contestants may be subscribers of a few newspapers which publish the puzzles simultaneously with Harper's Round Table. If you are not now a subscriber, and desire to compete, send the subscription price, $2, with your puzzle answer, photograph, or story, and you will then receive Harper's Round Table each week for a year, besides having a chance at the prizes. Even if you do not secure any prizes, you will have the paper, and be able to enter other competitions, and take advantage of our Book and Library offers.

### Prizes for Puzzle Solutions—$200.

### Offered in Five Unique Contests.

Harper's Round Table puzzles are famous. During the year five prize puzzles will be published, and $40 in cash will be offered for best solutions to each. Competition for these prizes is open only to actual subscribers to Harper's Round Table, and to the subscribers of a few newspapers which print these puzzles simultaneously with this periodical.

These prize puzzles are given in addition to the usual "Kinks." As a rule, the Kinks are not prize contests. The prize puzzles consist of stories, which are interesting as stories, and are good puzzles besides. The five cover as many varieties or styles of puzzles, and so give solvers of different tastes and abilities a chance at the particular kind of puzzle for which they have a bent. Here are titles of two of the prize puzzles: "The River Styx Puzzle," and "A Wonderful Outing Tragedy." Others are similar. The prize-money is $40 to the best three solvers in each contest. The right is reserved to divide the prize-money according to merit of answers. As a rule, it may be said that the best solver wins $20; the one who comes next wins $12, and the third $8. These puzzles will appear in Harper's Round Table during November and December, 1896, and January, February, and March, 1897, with the particulars of the contest. Correctness and neatness are the tests of excellence.

### Prizes for Short Stories—$150.

### First Prize, $75; Second, $50; Third, $25.

Harper's Round Table offers $150, divided in three parts, thus: First Prize, $75; Second Prize, $50; Third Prize, $25—for the best stories written by actual subscribers to it, those whose names are on its subscription list for a one year's subscription. Stories must contain at least five hundred words, and must not exceed two thousand words, actual count. The plot must be probable, and the story well told, both in sequence of events and in language employed. As far as practicable type-write the story. But this condition is not imperative. At the top of the first page place your name and address in full, and the number of words in your story. Do not roll your manuscript. Use paper about five by eight inches in size, unless the story is type-written, when use regular type-writer paper. Prepay postage, and enclose return postage. Address it, not later than February 28, 1897, to Harper's Round Table, New York, and put in the lower left-hand corner of the envelope the words "Story Competition." No story may be sent by you that is not wholly original with you, and none may be submitted that has ever been submitted in any contest. One person may not submit more than one story. Two persons may not join in writing a single story. If you are not a subscriber, and desire to compete for these prizes, send $2 with your story, and give address to which paper is to be sent for one year.

### Prizes for Photographs—$125.

### In Junior and Senior Contests.

We take great pleasure in announcing the opening of our annual photographic competition, in which prizes are to be given for the best photographs entered in the different classes before February 15, 1897. Until last year the competition was confined to members of the Round Table Camera Club. At that time it was decided to arrange, in addition to the competition for the club members, one which should be open to all amateur photographers who are subscribers to Harper's Round Table. This arrangement proved so popular that it will be continued this year. The prizes are as follows:

Open to all subscribers of Harper's Round Table who have not passed their eighteenth birthday.

CLASS I. |  | CLASS II. |  | CLASS III.
Figure Studies. |  | Landscapes. |  | Marines.
First Prize | $20 | First Prize | $12 | First Prize | $12
Second Prize | 10 | Second Prize | 8 | Second Prize | 8
Third Prize | 5 | Third Prize | 5 | Third Prize | 5

Entries for this competition will close February 15, 1897.

### RULES OF COMPETITION.

Rule I.—This competition is open to all subscribers of Harper's Round Table who have not passed their eighteenth birthday.

Rule II.—All photographs offered must be the work of the competitor, from the exposure of the plate to the mounting of the finished print.

Rule III.—No picture less than 4 by 5 or larger than 8 by 10 must be sent.

Rule IV.—Any printing process may be used with the exception of the blue print.

Rule V.—All pictures must be mounted and carriage prepaid.

Rule VI.—Each picture must be marked on the back of the mount with the name and address of the sender, the class for which it is designed, and the statement whether the artist has or has not passed his or her eighteenth birthday. No other writing is required, nor is it necessary to send a letter with the picture or pictures.

Rule VII.—No picture must be sent which has taken a prize, or has been submitted for prizes in other competitions.

Rule VIII.—Each competitor may send as many pictures as he chooses.

[Pg 1273]

Rule IX.—In addition to the name and address of the journal the package must be marked on the outside, "Harper's Round Table Photographic Competition."

### Senior Contest.

Open to all amateur photographers who are subscribers to Harper's Round Table, without regard to age limit.

#### CLASS A.—Figure Studies.

First Prize | $20
Second Prize | 15

#### CLASS B.—Landscapes.

First Prize | $15
Second Prize | 10

Entries for this competition will close February 15, 1897.

### RULES OF COMPETITION.

This competition is open to all amateurs, young or old, whether they are or are not members of the Round Table Camera Club. Members of the Camera Club may send pictures to both competitions.

The other rules governing this competition are the same as those in the competition open only to members of the Camera Club.

Photographs which do not take prizes, or are not retained for publication, will be returned to the senders if postage is enclosed.

Any picture which fails to take a prize, the percentage of which is above seventy, will receive honorable mention.

If you are not a subscriber, send $2 with your picture or pictures, and give your address, where we will send Harper's Round Table for one year.

Any questions in regard to the competition, or preparing pictures for the same, will be promptly answered by the editor. Address "Editor of Camera Club."

### A GOOD CHILD

is usually healthy, and both conditions are developed by use of proper food. The Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk is the best infant's food: so easily prepared that improper feeding is inexcusable and unnecessary.—[Adv.]

## ADVERTISEMENTS.

## WALTER BAKER & CO., limited.

Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.

## Breakfast Cocoa

#### Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s

### Breakfast Cocoa

Made at

#### DORCHESTER, MASS.

It bears their Trade Mark

"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.

### Beware of Imitations.

### EARN A TRICYCLE.

We wish to introduce our Teas. Sell 30 lbs. and we will give you a Fairy Tricycle; sell 25 lbs. for a Solid Silver Watch and Chain; 50 lbs. for a Gold Watch and Chain; 75 lbs. for a Bicycle; 10 lbs. for a Gold Ring. Write for catalog and order sheet Dept. I

#### W. G. BAKER,

#### Springfield, Mass.

#### —— 1857-1897 ——

## Harper's Weekly

#### For the Coming Year

will continue to be a

### Panorama of the World

#### TOPICS OF

### INTERNATIONAL

### INTEREST

will be fully treated.

### SERIALS

#### A New England Story

#### By MARY E. WILKINS.

#### A Tale of a Greek Uprising

#### By E. F. BENSON.

#### A Sequel to "The House-Boat on the Styx," by

### JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

#### Will also appear early in the year. Illustrated by Peter Newell

### ARMY AND NAVY LIFE

will be

#### PRESENTED BY SPECIAL WRITERS AND WELL-KNOWN ARTISTS

Special attention will be given to

### WESTERN SUBJECTS

The department of

### AMATEUR SPORT

#### By CASPAR WHITNEY

will remain the most important department of its kind in the country.

10 CENTS A COPY $4.00 A YEAR

#### HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

[Pg 1274]

## A SPLENDID LIST OF

## BOOKS FOR THE HOLIDAYS

George Washington. By Woodrow Wilson, Ph.D., LL.D., Professor of Jurisprudence, Princeton University. Illustrated by Howard Pyle and Others. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Deckel Edges and Gilt Top. (In Press.)

Contemporary Essayists. Uniform in Size and Style. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top.

> Aspects of Fiction, and Other Ventures in Criticism. By Brander Matthews. $1.50.

> Impressions and Experiences. By W. D. Howells. $1.50.

> The Relation of Literature to Life. By Charles Dudley Warner. (In Press.)

In the First Person. A Novel. By Maria Louise Pool. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

History of the German Struggle for Liberty. By Poultney Bigelow, B.A. Copiously Illustrated with Drawings by R. Caton Woodville, and with Portraits and Maps. Two Volumes. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, $5.00. (In a Box.)

The Dwarfs' Tailor, and Other Fairy Tales. Collected by Zoe Dana Underhill. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.75.

"Harper's Round Table" for 1896. Volume XVII. With 1276 Pages, and about 1200 Illustrations. 4to, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.50. (In Press.)

Limitations. A Novel. By E. F. Benson, Author of "Dodo," "The Judgment Books," etc. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental.

The Gray Man. A Novel. By S. R. Crockett, Author of "The Raiders," etc. Illustrated by Seymour Lucas, R.A. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.

Rick Dale. A Story for the Young. By Kirk Munroe. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

By George du Maurier. Illustrated by the Author.

> Trilby. A Novel. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.75; Three-quarter Calf, $3.50; Three-quarter Crushed Levant, $4.50.

> A Souvenir of "Trilby," Seven Photogravures in a Portfolio, $1.00.

> Peter Ibbetson. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50; Three-quarter Calf, $3.50; Three-quarter Crushed Levant, $4.50.

The Square of Sevens. An Authoritative System of Cartomancy. With a Prefatory Notice by E. Irenæus Stevenson. With Diagrams. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Deckel Edges and Gilt Top. (In Press.)

Solomon Crow's Christmas Pockets, and Other Tales. By Ruth McEnery Stuart. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (In Press.)

In the Old Herrick House, and Other Stories. By Ellen Douglas Deland. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental.

Tommy Toddles. By Albert Lee. Illustrated by Peter S. Newell. Square 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

Iras: A Mystery. By Theo. Douglas. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.

Green Fire. A Romance. By Fiona Macleod. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

Amyas Egerton, Cavalier. A Novel. By Maurice H. Hervey. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.50.

The Evolution of Woman. Forty-four Drawings by Harry Whitney McVickar, printed in colors, with accompanying text. Large 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $2.00.

Naval Actions of the War of 1812. By James Barnes. With 21 Full-page Illustrations by Carlton T. Chapman, printed in color or tint. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Deckel Edges and Gilt Top, $4.50. (In Press.)

Reminiscences of an Octogenarian of the City of New York (1816-1860). By Chas. H. Haswell. With many Illustrations, a Photogravure Portrait of the Author, and a Map of New York in 1816. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $3.00.

Alone in China, and Other Stories. By Julian Ralph. Illustrated by C. D. Weldon. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2.00. (In Press.)

The Ship's Company, and Other Sea People. By J. D. Jerrold Kelley, Lieutenant-Commander, U.S.N. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (In Press.)

A Rebellious Heroine. A Story. By John Kendrick Bangs. Illustrated by W. T. Smedley. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges, $1.25.

Mark Twain's Joan of Arc. Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. Illustrated by F. V. Du Mond. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2.50.

Books by Mark Twain. New and Uniform Library Editions from New Electrotype Plates. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental.

> The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. With Photogravure Portrait of the Author, and other Illustrations. $1.75.

> Life on the Mississippi. Illustrated. $1.75.

> A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Illustrated. $1.75.

> The Prince and the Pauper. Illustrated. $1.75.

> Tom Sawyer Abroad, Tom Sawyer, Detective, and Other Stories, etc., etc. Illustrated. $1.75. (In Press.)

> The American Claimant, and Other Stories. Illustrated. (In Press.)

The Abbey Shakespeare. The Comedies of William Shakespeare. With 131 Drawings by Edwin A. Abbey, Reproduced by Photogravure. Four Volumes. Large 8vo, Half Cloth, Deckel Edges and Gilt Tops, $30.00 per set. (In a Box.)

Bound in Shallows. A Novel. By Eva Wilder Brodhead. Illustrated by W. A. Rogers. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (In Press.)

Love in the Backwoods. Two Stories: "Two Mormons from Muddlety," "Alfred's Wife." By Langdon Elwyn Mitchell. Illustrated by A. B. Frost. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (In Press.)

Frances Waldeaux. A Novel. By Rebecca Harding Davis, Author of "Dr. Warrick's Daughters." Illustrated by T. de Thulstrup. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (In Press.)

Gascoigne's "Ghost." A Novel. By G. B. Burgin. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.

Tomalyn's Quest. A Novel. By G. B. Burgin. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. (In Press.)

A Virginia Cavalier. By Molly Elliot Seawell. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (In Press.)

Constitutional History of the United States from their Declaration of Independence to the Close of their Civil War. By George Ticknor Curtis. In Two Volumes. 8vo, Cloth, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, $3.00 each.

Clarissa Furiosa. A Novel. By W. E. Norris. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.

An Elephant's Track, and Other Stories. By M. E. M. Davis. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

The Mystery of Sleep. By John Bigelow. Post 8vo, Cloth, Deckel Edges and Gilt Top. (In Press.)

#### HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

[Pg 1275]

## HE DID NOT KNOW THE ROPES.

General Morgan, of Illinois, who commanded a brigade in Davis's division, was one of those men so slouchy in his appearance that a stranger would never have picked him for an officer of high rank. One day a raw recruit of his brigade who had lost some books asked a veteran where he might be likely to find them. The veteran said the only thief in the brigade was Jim Morgan, who occupied a tent near the blue flag. The recruit hastened to Morgan's tent, shoved his head in through the flaps, and asked,

"Does Jim Morgan live here?"

"My name is James Morgan," answered the General.

"Then I want you to hand over those books you stole from me!"

"I have none of your books, my dear man."

"That's a lie!" cried the soldier. "The boys say you are the only thief in camp. Turn out them books, or I'll grind your carcass into apple-sass!"

General Morgan appreciated the joke, and laughed heartily, but when the recruit began pulling off his coat to make good his threats, the officer informed him of his relations to the brigade.

"Waal, blast me if I'd take you for a brigadier!" said the man. "Excuse me, General, but I don't thoroughly know the ropes yet."

## ADVERTISEMENTS.

## Arnold

## Constable & Co.

## Children's Wear.

### FALL STYLES.

Velvet Walking Coats,

Lamb's-wool Coats,

Hand-made Dresses,

Children's Reefers,

School Frocks, Jackets, Capes.

### INFANTS' WEAR.

#### Broadway & 19th st.

#### NEW YORK.

## WATCH AND CHAIN FOR ONE DAY'S WORK.

Boys and Girls can get a Nickel-Plated Watch, also a Chain and Charm for selling 1½ doz. Packages of Bluine at 10 cents each. Send your full address by return mail and we will forward the Bluine, post-paid, and a large Premium List. No money required.

#### BLUINE CO. F Concord Junction, Mass.

When office work has tried the nerves
And taxed both hands and brain,
A quick, cool wash with Ivory serves
To soothe and ease the strain.

Copyright, 1896, by The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.

## HARPER'S BAZAR

#### In 1897

Will be, as in the past,

#### AN UNEQUALLED FASHION JOURNAL

#### AN UNRIVALLED PAPER FOR THE HOME

### 4 Splendid Serials

#### BY

#### MARIA LOUISE POOL

#### W. D. HOWELLS

#### OCTAVE THANET

#### S. R. CROCKETT

Working-Girls' Clubs and Young Women's Christian Association Work

By LILLIAN W. BETTS

### STRONG SHORT STORIES

By well-known writers.

#### THE EARLIEST YEARS

#### OF CHILDHOOD

By FRANCES FISHER WOOD

#### BREAD-WINNING AVOCATIONS

#### IN NEW LINES

By CLARE BUNCE

#### THE OUTDOOR WOMAN

By ADELIA K. BRAINERD

#### EMBROIDERY AND NEEDLEWORK

Will be illustrated by CANDACE WHEELER, ALICE C. MORSE, and others.

#### WOMEN AND MEN

By COL. T. W. HIGGINSON

#### WOMEN IN SOCIETY AND

#### AT HOME

By JUNIUS HENRI BROWNE

#### CEREMONY AND ETIQUETTE

By ANNA WENTWORTH SEARS

#### WHAT GIRLS ARE DOING

By a New York Girl.

10 Cents a Copy. PUBLISHED WEEKLY. $4.00 a Year.

#### HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

[Pg 1276]

SYMPATHY.

"Jimmie," said Mrs. Hicks, "won't you have some brown bread?"

"No, thank you," said Jimmie; "I'm afraid to eat it."

"Afraid?" asked Mrs. Hicks.

"Yes," said Jimmie. "You see, ma'am, my papa says red beef will give me red cheeks, and I'm afraid brown bread will make a darky out of me."

"Pat," said Tommie to the gardener, "what is nothing?"

"There ain't any such thing as nothin'," replied Pat; "becaze whin ye find nothin', and come to look at it, there ain't nothin' there."

An absent-minded old gentleman went into a shop to buy a new cane.

"That's a very nice one," he said, picking one up from the counter. "How much is that?"

"That's the one you brought in with you. You just laid it down there, sir," said the shopkeeper.

"Oh, really?" said the old gentleman. "Then I don't need a new one. Good-day." And he walked out.

"What is the baby crying about?" asked his mother.

"He doesn't want to get in the bath-tub without his rubbers on," said the nurse. "He's afraid he'll get his feet wet."

### A WITTY DECISION.

A good story is told of Dr. Arne, the composer of the English national hymn "Rule, Britannia." He was called upon one day to judge between two singers, neither of whom was worthy of a moment's consideration. After patiently hearing them, he said to one of the contestants,

"You are the worst singer I ever heard in my life."

"Ah!" cried the other, exultingly, "then I win?"

"No," said Dr. Arne. "You can't sing at all."

"Well, my son," said the Freshman's father, "I am very glad you have gone on your class football team. Have you got everything you need?"

"Everything, father, except a new set of teeth, and I may be able to get through the year without losing those that I have," replied the Freshman.

Jack got asking his grandmother questions the other night. One of them was:

"Grandma, if you was a centipede, would you always insist on putting on fifty pairs of rubbers before you walked on the grass?"

Up to this hour the dear old lady has not made up her mind on the important point.

Li Hung-Chang, the famous Chinaman who visited this country a short time ago, made quite an impression in England for his wit and apparent ingenuousness, although it was more than suspected that some of the old gentleman's remarks were not so bland as they seemed. One incident especially amused the Britishers. It was when Li Hung-Chang met Joseph Chamberlain, who affects a monocle. The Chinaman noticed the single eye-glass, and took it for granted that the Colonial Secretary had lost the use of one eye, and he offered him his sincere condolences.

### PHILOSOPHIC.

To prophesy the future would
Bring more of evil than of good;
So let us thank our lucky stars
That no such gift our wisdom mars.

The Irish soldier seems to furnish the story-teller with many an anecdote. The following incident is said to have occurred at the battle of Fontenoy, when the great Saxe was the marshal in command.

"The password is 'Saxe,'" said the officer of the guard, as he sent off an Irish trooper with a message; "don't forget the word."

"Sure I won't, sir," was the reply. "Sacks—my father was a miller."

When he came to the sentinel and was challenged, the Irishman looked wise, and whispered,

"'Bags,' you spalpeen; let me through!"

### FOOTNOTES:

[1] For the story of the battle of the Alamo see "An American Thermopylæ," in No. 876.

[2] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 868.

[3] This letter, which is printed in full in Marshall's Life of Washington, was among the highest personal compliments ever paid Washington. The signers were seasoned soldiers, addressing a young man of twenty-three, under whom they had made a campaign of frightful hardship ending in disaster. They were to be ordered to resume operations in the spring, and it was to this young man that these officers appealed, believing him to be essential to the proper conduct of the campaign.

    End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, October 27, 1896, by Various

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